Bonjour Encore
by jeanie2914
Summary: When a job offer gives Nathan Clay an excuse to return to New York, he accepts in spite of the risk it entails. Seeing an opportunity not only to connect with the life he left behind but to help Peter on a case, he hatches a plan to expose the Cordero operations in the City. He managed to fool the Cordero's once: Is twice pressing his luck? Sequel to Après moi. Post Series
1. Chapter 1

_I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories (generally) may not be for you. This story is a sequel to a previous story,_ _ **Après Moi,**_ _and set post season 6. I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Bonjour Encore Chapter One**

"Bonjour, Peter."

It took Peter a moment to register the reality of who was standing on his doorstep. Dressed casually, in dark shades and without his signature fedora, Neal registered Peter's shocked expression with a look of obvious pleasure.

"Neal Caffrey," Peter barely got the words out of his mouth; the shock of seeing Neal at his door almost causing him to lose his footing. He had dreamed of this moment but had been afraid it would never happen. Neal Caffrey was dead, after all, and had been for over two years now.

"Actually, it's Nathan Clay," Neal reminded him, extending his hand with a smile. Neal Caffrey had been killed in New York by Matthew Keller and Nathan Clay had started a new life in Paris. Peter took the offered hand but instead of shaking it, used it to pull Neal in for a tight hug. He expected nothing other than the usual stiff reception, but after a moment he felt Neal relax and pat him awkwardly on the back.

"I am trying for _incognito_ , Peter," his tone was amused, "and two grown men hugging on the doorstep in this neighborhood doesn't fit that order. Can I come in?"

Peter unclenched his friend but kept his hand clamped on his shoulder, almost afraid if he let go, Neal would sprint away or simply evaporate before his eyes. He directed him into the room and closed the door behind him.

"What brings Nathan Clay to New York?" Peter asked, finally releasing his grip on his friend and motioning him to the sofa. "You clearly told me that he, _you_ , couldn't come here." This conversation had taken place as they parted company in Bogota Columbia four months earlier, after Neal, or rather Nathan, had flown to South America to rescue him from Venezuelan crime lord and international drug dealer, Alberto Cordero.

Neal didn't answer his question immediately, removing his sunglasses and taking a moment to glance around the room in which he had once spent so much time. "New sofa," He commented, taking his seat. It dawned on Peter that Neal was trying to get his bearings; it was as strange to him to be here as it was for Peter to have him. Something that had once felt so natural to both of them now felt almost alien.

"Where's Satchmo?" Neal asked, a pained look crossing his face, "Please don't tell me…."

"Elizabeth and Neal have taken him for a walk," he suddenly remembered his manners, "You want something, soda, beer?"

"No, I'm good," he paused, looking at Peter expectantly. "Remember when you told me that Cordero's people might track me down?" He blurted out.

Peter felt a wave of panic as he took a seat on the edge of the chair across from Neal. He had feared that ramifications from Neal's exploits in South America might cause some problems. Cordero might be in prison, but his organization was still alive and well. With his financial resources, he was probably still calling the shots. "They came after you?"

"In a matter of speaking." There was an amused tone in Neal's voice that didn't fit given he had been tracked down by a criminal organization bent on revenge. "They offered me a job."

Peter took a moment to absorb the words that had exited Neal's mouth. The Cordero organization had drug operations all along the East Coast. Five months ago in an unexpected turn of events Peter and the White Collar team had nabbed their logistics man in New York, Alejandro Diaz, on counterfeiting charges. They had been completely unaware of his other activities until Peter had been snatched from a parking garage. Alberto Cordero had taken him in an attempt to blackmail the FBI into dropping charges, or otherwise botching the case against Diaz, in exchange for Peter's safe return. There had been a five-week deadline.

The FBI could not negotiate, and the problem was further complicated by the fact that Peter had been spirited out of the country and stuffed in a 10 x 10 cell in Cordero's Venezuelan estate. Politics became involved and progressed on the case ground to a halt.

Elizabeth knew the truth about Neal Caffrey; Peter had shared with her the details of how he had faked his death and had started a new life as Nathan Clay. He had made her promise never to try to contact him and for two years she had kept that promise. But when it seemed nothing was being done to save Peter, she broke it. She did what she always did when he was in trouble; she went to Neal for help. And Neal did what he always did; whatever was necessary to save a friend.

What was necessary had involved great risk; Nathan Clay had run a con on Alberto Cordero, been invited to his home as a guest, and then arranged the rescue of Peter at the hands of the Venezuelan authorities. The plan had been executed perfectly, and Neal insisted that he had gotten away clean, with no one but Peter the wiser to his involvement in the incident. Peter, however, had worried that Neal's reckless disregard for the consequences of his actions might come back to bite him.

He had, at best, expected some legal entanglements from the Venezuelan authorities. At worst, that the Cordero organization might put together Neal's part in their leader's take down and come after him for revenge. Peter had to admit that a job offer had never been on his list of possible outcomes. Leave it to Neal Caffrey, or as he insisted now, Nathan Clay, to bring down a drug lord and get offered a job in return.

"Please tell me you turned them down." The fact that Neal was sitting in his living room with a very pleased with himself grin on his face told him that Neal hadn't. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes intent on the bright blue ones across from him. "Why did they come to you and why, after everything, why would you take them up on this?" Peter knew that Neal had never been involved in the drug trade; his reasons for accepting the offer would be something entirely different, and Peter had his suspicions.

Neal's smile lost some of its brightness at the question. "You told me yourself, Peter," he began, "That you have a special interest in shutting down Cordero's organization here in New York."

It was true; Peter had offered his office's support to the Organized Crime Division, in a joint operation with the DEA, in taking down the Cordero organization. The men who had taken him from the parking garage were still at large, unknown members of the organization, and Peter couldn't rest until they were caught and put away. The topic had come up in one of his recent international calls with Neal.

For two years, there had been no contact between the two of them at Neal's insistence. But after their adventure in Venezuela, Neal had broken his own rule. Peter had not only received two calls from Nathan Clay in the past four months but Neal Burke, on the occasion of his second birthday only days before, had received an expensive art set from his Uncle Nathan.

There had been a definite shift in his friend's attitude towards his previous life. Before, he had insisted that he had to leave it all behind. Now, on occasion, he seemed to reach out to connect with it again. It didn't surprise Peter; the look in Neal's eyes as they parted company in South America confirmed what Peter had suspected all along. Neal missed the life he had left behind. More importantly, he missed the people. Given enough time, Peter had hoped he would find his way back. And here he was.

"Of course I do," Peter admitted, "But that's my _job_. It's not yours." He looked at his friend. "I can never thank you enough for what you did for me, but this isn't your problem. I don't want you involved with this."

"At the airport in Bogota, you asked me to come back to New York with you, remember?" The smile was now gone, and the blue eyes searched his. "And Elizabeth said that if I ever wanted to come, I would be welcome here."

Peter had wanted Neal to come home and still did; but not like this. Any involvement with the Cordero organization would be a dangerous undertaking. With the recent shake-ups in the inner circles of the organization and competition intent on keeping territory they had gained during the past few months, there had already been causalities. Nathan Clay could easily become collateral damage. It felt too much like something they had been through before: an insanely dangerous operation that had lead to the demise of Neal Caffrey. He couldn't lose his friend again; this time it might be for real.

"And you _are_ welcome," Peter assured him, "We want you to come home, but you can just come home, you don't have to do this." Peter saw a flicker of doubt in Neal's eyes at his words. "You don't have to earn your way back…just _come_."

He only paused a moment before responding. "I know that Peter," His tone was sincere, "and I'm not doing this to earn my way home. I didn't go looking for this; it just dropped in my lap," There was now excitement in the blue eyes that Peter recognized immediately; the thrill of a challenge. "I can do this; I _want_ to do this."

He had seen it when Neal had filled him in on the details of his rescue during their flight out of Venezuela four months before. As Nathan Clay, Neal had left the confidence game, but when Elizabeth came to him for help, he had gone back to the thing he did best. His sheer pleasure as he recounted the details of the plan, although entertaining to behold, had troubled Peter even then. And for good reason.

"You're _already_ doing this, aren't you?"

Neal nodded, watching Peter expectantly for his response. Peter knew that if Neal had already started this course of action, he had to make sure he lived to see it through. He sighed.

"Okay. I assume you have some sort of plan in mind?"

"Of course," Neal leaned back on the sofa, clearly pleased at Peter's inquiry. His smug look was one Peter knew well, and surprisingly enough, had actually missed. "Mozzie and I already have it all worked out."

 _Of course they did,_ Peter thought.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for reading and reviewing :)_

 **Chapter Two**

"I can't believe he's actually here," Elizabeth was snuggled up beside him, but her mind was on Neal Caffrey. Or Nathan Clay. Sometimes things got confusing where his friend, and former CI, was concerned. "Even if it is just for a few days." She paused, "Do you think he'd consider putting a gallery here in the city instead of in Philadelphia?"

"I don't know," Peter answered absently, his mind still trying to wrap itself around the unexpected turn his afternoon had taken. "Maybe."

He was going to tell her the truth about Neal's business in the city; he _was._

Elizabeth had been thrilled to find Neal in her living room, but he knew she wouldn't be thrilled when she learned why he had really come back to New York. She had been traumatized when he had been taken by Cordero's men; she still had nightmares. Sometimes, she woke in terror, having dreamed that someone had taken little Neal from her.

After their son had been born, she had pressured Peter to cut back on field work, but after the kidnapping, she had been adamant that he, in his role as section chief, leave field work completely to the other agents. He had a family; she insisted, and his son deserved to have his father as he grew up. The fact that he'd been kidnapped from a parking garage and not while on field work didn't sway her in the least. Even though he didn't like being on the sidelines when the action went down, Peter had given in to her demands. He had put her through enough.

So far, White Collar had only been allowed to provide office support in the Cordero case, but he knew well enough that when it came time for arrests to be made, he was going to make an argument to be there. He wanted to be the one to put cuffs on the point man here in NY, the man he knew had arranged for his kidnapping. Elizabeth would not like that, but he had decided to cross that bridge when he came to it. With Neal's new job opportunity, Peter felt that bridge was going to be crossed sooner than he had anticipated.

He was going to tell her the truth, but not tonight; not until he knew more details about what the plan entailed and what the timeline actually would be. There was no use in worrying her longer than necessary. Or at least, that is what he told himself.

He hadn't gotten any details from Neal before Elizabeth had returned from her walk, and the hugging, the tail-wagging reunion had begun. The moment Elizabeth introduced little Neal to his Uncle Nathan had been almost surreal, and the only time during his visit that Neal seemed at a loss for words, his air of certainty momentarily disrupted. It was something to have both Neal's in the same room at the same time. He thought back to the joy of the birth of his son, and the bittersweet memory when Elizabeth asked if it would be okay to name him Neal. She had even let little Neal kiss his Uncle good night before putting him to bed. Neal had handled it well if a bit awkwardly, and the look he sent Peter's way was a mix between amazement and apprehension. After little Neal had been put to bed, the three of them had settled down and discussed what had brought Neal back to New York.

Peter had felt his heart rate increase when Elizabeth asked Neal the question, and there was the briefest of delays as Neal's eyes met his, reading Peter's warning before launching into a what seemed a very plausible story. He was thinking about opening a gallery stateside; he told her. Peter listened as Neal recounted his recent visit to Philadelphia where he had scouted locations, attended gallery openings, and dined in five-star restaurants. Neal had always been thorough when constructing a cover story, paying meticulous attention to the smallest detail. Neal knew that the most convincing story had more elements of truth than conjecture, and this was no exception. By the details he shared, from the art on display to the wine selections, Peter guessed that he had actually been in Philadelphia the week before, possibly even under the guise of opening a gallery.

Neal was very good at keeping certain elements of the truth out of a story when necessary. That was typical Neal Caffrey and something Peter had grown to expect and anticipate during their years together. The only atypical part was ease in which he had now used that skill on Elizabeth. In the past, in spite of his best efforts, Elizabeth could tell when he was holding back or not telling her the complete truth. She had told Peter once that Neal didn't like to deceive her, and when he did, she could see a hint of regret in his eyes. Peter understood; that too had been the way he had been able to tell when Neal was being less than forthcoming with him. There was something in his eyes that his confident smile couldn't hide.

Peter had watched Neal closely all evening; partly to convince himself that he was truly here, sitting in his living room, talking art, wine and food with Elizabeth. But the part in an attempt to detect hesitation or regret in his eyes, words or actions, as he kept the truth about his visit from Elizabeth. There had been none. As he discussed his plans for a new gallery, he was funny, charming and completely relaxed. Even though he knew Neal had followed his lead and was only protecting Elizabeth from worry, on some level, it still bothered Peter. He wondered if he, too, could be so easily fooled?

There was a time when he would have dismissed the thought; in his years of chasing Neal Caffrey, years of working with him, Peter had developed what he called the Caffrey Radar. It alerted Peter when something was amiss; and even though it had pinged the entire time Neal had been working his last case, Peter had never suspected what Neal had really been planning; the death of Neal Caffrey and the life of Nathan Clay. Neal had fooled them all; he, Elizabeth, even Mozzie. The memory of that act still brought a twinge of anger even though he knew why Neal had done it. Could Neal fool him if he wanted to? Absolutely. But did he have a reason to now? Peter hoped not.

"He's different, though, isn't he?" His mind had been wandering, and Elizabeth's question caught him off guard. He was curious as to what difference she had seen that had escaped his attention.

"Different how?" he asked.

She didn't answer immediately. "I don't know. There is something missing in his eyes, Peter," When didn't comment and she continued, "I saw it in Paris; He's not happy. He tries to convince himself he is but he's not."

Elizabeth had told him about her visit to Neal in Paris when she had flown across the globe to get his help to save Peter. Then, too, he had been able to completely mislead her; convincing her that he couldn't help when he fully intended to do exactly that. She had also told him about the way Neal had changed; the sadness of his eyes, and the emptiness of his office and his apartment.

Peter thought back to his earlier exchange with Neal; before Elizabeth had arrived. There had been moments when he had seemed awkward, times he had seemed unsure, times when he could tell that Neal was happy to be there. His reactions to Elizabeth, Satmo and Little Neal, had been exactly what he would have expected, right down to the blush on his face when Elizabeth wrapped him in a tight hug. He had behaved just as he would expect Neal to behave.

But after little Neal had been put to bed, and Elizabeth had asked him why he was in the city, there had been a shift. Peter had seen it; with the question Neal had easily slipped into a man playing a part. From that time until he rose to leave, he followed a prepared script in his head, executing it perfectly without even the slighted indication that he was anything but transparent. It wasn't something Peter hadn't seen him do before; Neal had always been a gifted con artist. He just hadn't seen him do it with Elizabeth.

"He's been gone a long time, El" Peter replied. "He's bound to be different; he's been living a different life as a different person on a different continent. Being back here with us," He paused, thinking of Neal's arrival earlier, "it has to be strange to him."

"Yeah, I guess it would have to be," she yawned, the long day catching up with her at last. "I'm just glad he came. I wish he had stayed here with us, though."

"I know," Peter said, squeezing her gently, "me too."

Moments later, the gentle rhythm of her breathing told Peter that she had fallen asleep. But sleep didn't come as quickly to Peter; he was thinking about what the next days may hold. He had his concerns, of course, but he also felt a thrill of anticipation he hadn't felt in a long time. Working with Neal again made things feel like they were right again for the first time in two years.

Earlier, when Neal had finally announced that he needed to go, Elizabeth had tried to get him to stay with them. Peter hadn't been surprised that Neal had declined. Even though he had seemed relaxed during his visit, Peter believed what he had told his wife; being at the Burke house, or perhaps even back in the city, was difficult for Neal. The unease he had picked up on when Neal had arrived returned when he walked him to the door. Having played his part for Elizabeth, when he was alone with Peter, he seemed to have dropped his act.

"It's late. You sure you don't want to stay here," Peter offered again, "We have a guest room, and you are welcome to it." Peter still had an irrational fear that once Neal disappeared into the night, he might not return. Neal hesitated for just a moment but again declined.

"No, I am all set," he said, "I arranged for a late check-in."

"So, Mozzie still has safe houses here in the city," Peter inquired with a smile, "What day of the week are the two of you staying during this little adventure?"

"I'm staying at the Waldorf in midtown," With a look of mischief in his eyes at Peter's raised eyebrows, he continued. "Penthouse suite. Can you join me for an early lunch in the restaurant downstairs, say about eleven? We can," he glanced over Peter's shoulder into the living room. " _discuss things."_

Peter could hardly wait to discuss things, but the Waldorf? Even a regular room in that place was above his pay grade, even as section chief. And Neal was staying in the penthouse?

"Penthouse at the Waldorf?" he asked in disbelief. "Cordero's people footing the bill?"

"No, Peter," Neal replied with exaggerated patience. "I am a successful business man with an expense account; I foot my _own_ bills these days" He rewarded Peter's skeptical look with a smile. "But you can buy lunch if it makes you feel better."

"At the Waldorf?" Peter replied, shaking his head. "I don't think so. It'll be nice to take your expense account for a spin for a change."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Peter had trouble concentrating on his work at the White Collar Office. All of his current team knew about his former CI even if they hadn't worked with him; Neal Caffrey was legendary. Jones, of course, had worked with Neal, and it was largely due to his stories that Neal's fame had grown. Jones had taken Neal's death hard; all of them had. He would probably be angry, just like Peter had been at first, to learn that Neal had faked his death. He would be angry with Peter too for keeping the secret. But his team would need to know. Again, it was a bridge he would cross when he came to it. Not this morning, but soon.

Although it was sure to be awkward personally and professionally for him, and equally awkward for Neal, there wouldn't be any legal issues with his return. When Neal had died, Peter had made sure that all the paperwork making him a free man was processed. It had been little comfort at the time but it was all Peter could do for his friend. His friends and coworkers had shaken their heads sadly at his insistence that it get squared away. _Too little too late,_ he felt their eyes saying. He had felt the same but had done it anyway. Ever since he'd learned that Neal was alive, he had been glad he had seen it through. Neal Caffrey could come back if he chose to; Peter had just had his doubts that he would ever make that choice. He seemed perfectly satisfied living in Paris as Nathan Clay. But that impression had changed when he had seen him face to face; he might be satisfied, but he was not happy. Since that time, Peter had reason to hope.

Neal wanted to come home; Peter had seen it in South American and Elizabeth had said the same thing about seeing him in Paris. But he hadn't been ready for that then. Now here he was, bringing an opportunity to dismantle the Cordero ring to Peter and the FBI. Neal said he wasn't trying to earn his way back, but Peter was sure that on some level, he was. It was almost as if he couldn't come back just because he wanted to; he had to have some other reason. He was also sure that the challenge the job presented also was a motivator for his return. It was something Neal had clearly missed in his life as Nathan Clay.

He looked at his watch; it was just past ten. Finally time for him to head to the Waldorf. Neal was back in the city. Sure he was here as Nathan Clay, but he was here. They had a lot to talk about, and Peter couldn't wait to hear what Neal's plans were, not only for the case but for after as well.

Neal had said he's meet him in the restaurant, but when Peter entered, he didn't see him at first. Used to Neal standing out in any crowd, here he had managed to blend in remarkably well with the other rich yuppie diners. He was sitting at a corner table facing the door, reading a paper. His clothes were classy but casual; no pinstripes or narrow ties. His hair was messy and unruly, but Peter had seen similar styles in some of Elizabeth's artsy magazines, so he assumed the look was stylish in the world he had been living in. This was Neal as Nathan Clay, Gallery Owner, in the states looking to open a new gallery. When he looked up and saw Peter, however, the smile he flashed was all Neal Caffrey.

"Nice disguise," Peter said, pulling out the chair and taking his seat. "I almost didn't see you."

"This isn't a _disguise_ , Peter, this is _me_ ," Neal answered, putting the paper aside. "Nathan Clay. Artist, Gallery owner and…."

"Successful businessman," Peter finished. "Yes, you told me." They were joined almost immediately and presented with menus. They ordered their drinks, and after the waitress' departure, Peter looked at the menu. He let out a low whistle and looked across the table at Neal. "Expense account, huh?"

"Yes, Peter," Neal smiled at him. "So order up."

"When I was paying the bills, you always ordered the most expensive item on the menu," Peter reminded him, looking down the list as if searching for the same. "Even if you didn't actually like it."

"That was rather immature," Neal's eyes twinkled. "I guess Neal Caffrey had a problem with authority; he liked to stick it to the man."

Peter chuckled. "Yes, and more often than not, that _man_ was _me_." It was odd to hear him speak of himself in the third person. He had done the same thing in Venezuela. Peter studied his menu. "So, is Mozzie staying here or does he still have his own, less conspicuous, accommodations in the city?"

"Of course he does," Neal laughed, "But he's not staying in any of them this trip." At Peter's raised eyebrows he continued. "Mozzie isn't here, Peter; He should be back in Paris by now."

The waitress appeared again and took their order. Peter didn't order the most expensive thing on the menu, but he didn't order the cheapest either.

"Back in Paris?" Peter inquired, "Does that mean he was here?"

"No, he was much further south. He handled the logistics," He supplied, "and electronic supplies; he placed tracking devices in the shipment."

Neal had told Peter that he had been recruited to make good on the offer he had presented to Alberto Cordero four months earlier; to provide transportation for his product into the city. Elizabeth had returned from her walk before Peter had gotten any more details. That was the purpose of this meeting; to discuss things. He raised his eyebrows. "Tracking devices?"

"The shipment is divided into packages," Neal explained. "and Mozzie placed tracking devices in each one. Once I activate them and give the right people the correct frequencies, the packages can be traced to the distributors."

"And what happens to Nathan Clay when the Cordero organization discovers the shipment has been tracked?" He shook his head. "You might have skated in Venezuela, but this will seal your fate. They'll know it was you."

"They won't find out," Neal assured him, "Not if this shipment is used to _trace_ the distribution routes and _not_ take them out. If it's handled correctly, the entire network will be exposed, and you can take it out on the next shipment Cordero sends." He smiled, "One I am _not_ handling."

Peter studied him. "What happens if someone spots the trackers?"

Neal smiled, "That won't happen; Mozzie handled that. No one will be the wiser."

Peter looked at Neal questioningly. "Cordero has reestablished his drug flow into the city, why would he come to you to move this one? That doesn't make a lot of business sense to me."

"Alberto likes me," Neal's smile was easy, "and felt bad that I lost my shipment when his villa was stormed; he just wanted to offer me a chance to make my money back."

"How very generous of him," Peter commented. Alberto Cordero was in prison, but money had its perks. Word was he still ran his operations from his less than luxurious accommodations. "So when is all this going to go down? How much time do we have to get things in position?"

"I need you to set up a couple meetings. The first one with someone from the DEA."

That wasn't exactly the answer Peter had been expecting. He wanted a place, a time, and the frequency he needed to track. The DEA would have to be involved eventually, but the Cordero organization was wanted for more than just drug trafficking. The Organized Crime Division had equal rights to it, and so did White Collar. Peter wanted the Bureau to be the lead in this operation; after all, as Neal had pointed out, he had a vested interest in seeing it through.

"The DEA?" He looked at Neal in surprise, then shook his head. "It's too soon for that. I'll go to Don at Organized Crime; we've been working together on this case. Once we get things set, we will read them in." Peter knew how these things worked; if Neal presented the deal to the DEA, they would run roughshod over the FBI and take over. He wasn't about to let that happen. "I know they need to be in the loop," he continued, "But the FBI should take the lead."

Neal studied him for a moment before answering. "The DEA, Peter, needs to take the lead," he said. "We will need their wider resources to make this work."

"I can pull in more men," Peter assured him, "And so can Don. Between Organized Crime and us, we can cover this." Again, Neal hesitated, his expression bringing Peter a sense of unease. He had something to say he knew Peter wasn't going to like. Two years hadn't changed that look.

"The shipment I am bringing in isn't just for New York; it's supplying two other cities."

"Two other cities?" Peter's fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and he looked at Neal in surprise. Leave it to Neal. "How big is this shipment, Neal?"

"Nathan," he corrected, "and it's big. That's why I need to meet with someone from the DEA." He held up a hand at Peter's objection, "This could bring down not only the New York connection but cripple the entire Eastern Coast operation."

The scope of what Neal was offering left Peter speechless a moment. He nodded. "Okay, let me call Agent Singleton and read him in. He has been working directly with the DEA. I can get him to set up a meeting."

Neal didn't answer immediately as their lunch was delivered. When they were alone again, Neal spoke.

"Thanks, Peter," Neal said, inspecting his lunch appreciatively. He glanced back at Peter in amusement. "It's not like I could just call up the DEA and tell them I had a present for them."

"I guess not," Peter said, "It will take a little explaining. You said a couple of meetings. Who else do you want brought in?"

"Someone who can legalize a document outlining my terms of service," he said easily.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Your terms of _service_?"

"There are always terms of service," Neal's replied mischievously, "Not the least of which will be a guarantee of immunity for any incidental crimes I might have to perpetrate in the course of this operation."

"You actually asking me for a _Get Out of Jail Free_ card?"

"Nope," his eyes twinkled with amusement. "I need a _You Won't Go To Jail at All_ card. And I will need that before I give any additional information."

Peter leaned back in his chair. "We can give you a pass on the trafficking charge since you are doing it as part of an undercover operation. Any other crimes I need to be aware of?"

There was a flicker in Neal's eyes, and Peter knew there was something else. "I just like to cover my bases," he said, his smile easy "Just in case something unforeseen comes up."

"Unforeseen?" Peter asked, studying Neal closely. "What are you not telling me?"

"I have to take part of the shipment to another location, outside the city."

Peter thought that Neal's plan was only to bring the tagged shipment into the city. Organized Crime Division, who had been working on buying their way up the supply chain for the past four months, had only gotten up a couple levels. Even the undercovers they had managed to work into the organization were low men on the totem pole and had little access to information. The shipment would give access to the hierarchy of the drug trade. With the information they could gather, they would then be able to launch a series of investigations, hopefully resulting in the demise of the organization.

Neal transferring the shipment to the top traffickers in New York was dangerous enough; doing the same thing in another city would double his risk. And outside New York, Peter's ability to keep him safe would be severely hampered.

"Dammit, Neal," he said under his breath-Dammit Nathan just wouldn't come out of his mouth-"Let me guess," he said, "Philadelphia?"

"Of course," Neal confirmed, with a smile. "The City of Brotherly Love." He glanced at Peter's food, still untouched. "Eat your lunch, Peter. Everything's going to be fine. I have things worked out."

Hence the reason he had spent several days in Philadelphia; he had been working things out. Even though Neal acted as if the added aspect was no big deal, It did nothing to remove Peter's concerns. He now had a lump of dread taking up space in his previously empty stomach. "I can't protect you in Philadelphia."

"I don't need you to," Peter could tell this was a touchy subject; Neal had tensed even though his voice had remained calm and steady. "I'm not your responsibility. I'm not your CI anymore, Peter."

He didn't point out that by bringing information to the FBI, Neal had reprised the role, and it _was_ his job to protect him. Neal obviously didn't want to hear that so he let it ride. "Okay," he said, "But you're my friend; I want to make sure you're safe."

He hoped his honesty would reach Neal. He, of all people, should understand the lengths one would go to keep a friend from harm.

His hope was realized; Neal's posture relaxed. "I understand, really I do," Neal replied, "and I appreciate it, but the best way to do that is by setting up these meetings for me." His eyes met Peter's, "Me as in Nathan Clay, Peter, not Neal Caffrey."

"There wouldn't be any legal repercussions," Peter ventured, "coming back as yourself. After you-" Peter stopped, "left, I made sure all the paperwork went through as promised. I told you this before; Neal Caffrey is a free man."

"Neal Caffrey was never a free man," There was a sharpness in his tone before he adjusted it. "I know we'll have to disclose some information to explain why I am here now, but I don't want anyone knowing who doesn't have to." At Peter's questioning look, he added, " _No one._ I'm not ready for that and I don't need the distraction."

That was an admission he wouldn't have ever expected; Neal Caffrey admitting to not being ready for anything. He had told Elizabeth that being back in New York had to be strange for Neal but maybe he hadn't realized how strange it actually was. As much as Neal wanted to come home, Peter was beginning to believe that there was a part of him that still wasn't ready. He suspected Neal was involved in some internal tug of war, and the outcome was still to be determined. Maybe, when this was over, Neal would be willing to talk it through with him. He would like to weigh in on that decision. But right now, he agreed with Neal: he didn't need the distraction. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

"Okay," Peter replied, hoping to put Neal at ease by granting his request. "The meeting will be with Nathan Clay, and I promise, no one will know who doesn't have to know."

"That's all I ask," Neal said, rewarding Peter's reassurance with a smile. His next words almost caused Peter to choke on his tea. "You know me, I try to keep things simple."


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you so much for posting reviews. I am not by nature a vain person, but reviews help inspire me to write and so I appreciate them so very much. Also, I would like to ask everyone to pause a moment for our French friends. It truly is a small world._

 **Chapter Four**

Keeping things simple included Neal's criteria for the two meetings he needed to be scheduled immediately. He didn't give Peter a time frame for the delivery of the shipment, but there was definitely a sense of urgency that said things were moving fast. This had been the topic, for the most part, during the rest of their lunch at the Waldorf.

Neal agreed to let Peter meet with his friend at Organized Crime, and to the two of them presenting the offer to the DEA. Peter would have to substantiate Neal's offer by providing the back story, at least initially, and Neal didn't want to be present for that. If the DEA agreed to accept his offer, a meeting with someone from the attorney general's office was the first order of business. When Peter pressed for details to present to Singleton and the DEA, Neal had only given the basics.

The numbers themselves were noteworthy; over sixteen million dollars of illegal drugs coming into the City of New York and he had a way to track them down the pipe to the distributors. He said that was enough information to see if they were interested in his offer or not. Peter knew they would be more than interested. They would jump on the opportunity if they believed the information was credible. Neal knew it too; Peter could tell by the look of confidence in his eyes.

But the details-the when, where and how-would come after Neal had certain assurances. He had a written Terms of Service prepared and once all involved parties, plus a representative from the Attorney General's office, agreed to them and signed the paperwork, he would outline the finer details of the plan. Immunity for himself and those assisting him was top on the list. There were other terms; Neal said with a small smile, but they were all more than reasonable given the scope of the operation. He didn't volunteer what those terms were, and Peter didn't ask. He wasn't sure he wanted to know but assumed he would know soon enough.

It still seemed unreal to Peter that he was sitting across from his friend and former CI. Even though he insisted on being called Nathan, and his clothing and hairstyle had changed, some things had not changed at all. He was enjoying being back in the city and more than that, enjoying being back in action. The excitement in his eyes was the Neal Caffrey he had known before. And it was contagious; Peter felt a similar excitement as he rose from the table. His work had been good the past two years. He had overseen operations and closed cases, but it had not been the same without Neal.

He knew he had some paperwork ahead, and some explaining to do about the reappearance of Neal Caffrey, but he didn't mind. This could be the biggest case of his career, and he and Neal were working it together. Things seemed right for the first time in a long time.

"Elizabeth wants you to come for dinner one day this week," Those words coming out of his mouth just made the moment more real. Just like old times. "I told her I'd be seeing you and she told me to press you for a date."

"That's nice," Neal replied, "But let me get back to you on that." Neal had never turned down an invitation from Elizabeth before; perhaps he did have some regrets about having deceived her the evening before.

"She won't let you dodge for long," Peter said, "She is really happy you are back."

"Not _back,_ Peter," Neal corrected gently, "just _in town_. For now."

The tug of war was still in play, and Peter modified his statement. "Then she's glad you are in town." He smiled, "for now."

"Only because she doesn't know why I'm here," Neal's eyes met his. "I take it you haven't told her yet."

"You didn't tell her last night," Peter mumbled uncomfortably. Neal not telling her the truth and him not doing it was two very different things, and he knew it.

"You didn't want me too," Neal reminded him. "And I didn't lie," Neal said simply, "I just didn't tell her everything."

So typically Neal. "So you were really looking for rental property in Philadelphia for a gallery?"

"Yes, for a gallery and…well, other things."

"Well, I haven't lied to her either," Peter assured him, knowing that the distinction was not valid. "and I will tell her more once I know more. No use in upsetting her prematurely."

Neal looked as if he was going to protest but then shrugged instead. "You don't have to explain to me; I understand perfectly." His eyes met Peter's, "No use in upsetting someone before you have to."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The meeting between Peter and Donald Singleton of Organized Crime went well. Peter had known Don for several years; they had trained together at Quantico. He had never personally worked with Neal Caffrey, but he knew his reputation, and he knew what his death had done to Peter and the entire White Collar Team. To explain the current offer, Peter filled Singleton in on the story from Venezuela, and of course, who Nathan Clay really was. The man listened at first in disbelief and then amazement.

"Neal Caffrey," Donald mused at the end of Peter's monolog, "Alive and well. I can't believe it. And he's been living as Nathan Clay all this time?"

"Yes, in Paris," Peter said truthfully, "He was in danger of reprisal after his last undercover operation. He decided it was safer for everyone for Neal Caffrey to be dead."

"But when you were taken, he came back from the dead, traveled to South American and orchestrated your rescue." He shook his head, "He must be some friend and one hell of an operative. He pulled all that off in a foreign country without any backup?"

"Neal can manufacture backup," Peter said with a smile. He knew Mozzie had been there but didn't disclose that fact. "And he is the best I've ever worked with. He can pull off the impossible; If he says he can do this, trust me, he can."

"Sixteen million dollars," Singleton whistled, then looked at Peter. "Does he really has the means to bring something that big into the city? And track it?"

"Like I said, if he says he can, he can," Peter answered. It was disconcerting to think that Neal could find a way to smuggle that kind of cargo into the city. Even dead two years, he still had some seriously illegal resources to draw from. Or he and Mozzie did. Mozzie had been in charge of logistics. "But we can't move on this shipment" he reiterated, the seriousness of the fact coming through in his voice, "they'd trace it straight back to him. We _track_ this one, document all the players, and be ready to move on the next go around. That is the only way he does this."

"I understand the situation," Singleton assured him, "we've done this kind of thing before, albeit not on this scale. We'll track the lines of distribution, gather enough to get warrants to dig deeper on the key players." He looked at Peter, "So he arranges for a drug lord's hacienda to be raided, gets him sent to prison and gets a job offer in return." He shook his head and smiled at Peter. "I can't wait to meet him."

"He'll be glad to hear it," Peter said, "Who are you working with at the DEA?"

"Scott Elliot," he answered, picking up the phone on his desk. "I will give him a call."

"No details about who Nathan Clay really is," Peter told him, "It's a condition he's insisting on. Just tell him what he's willing to provide and set a meeting with someone from the Attorney General's office. He has some conditions; after that is settled, he'll provide the information we need."

"Elliot," he said into the phone, "Tell him it's Agent Singleton and it's important." He covered the receiver with his hand, "Conditions? What does he want?"

"A guarantee that we won't out him to Cordero," Peter answered, "And immunity for his part in transporting the drugs. Among other things."

"Other things?" Singleton raised his eyebrows.

"I have no idea," Peter stated honestly, "Have Elliot get a meeting with the Attorney General's office and then we'll both know."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"Agent Burke," Agent Elliot said as he extended his hand. "Thank you for bringing this opportunity to our attention. It's almost unbelievable." The look he gave Peter and his tone indicated he was serious; he had his doubts about the offer. But to his credit, in spite of his doubts, he had arranged the meeting Nathan Clay had requested. Everyone was present except for Neal.

Peter had offered to give him a ride, but he had declined to say he had another appointment. Nathan Clay, he informed Peter, had a driver's license. Both of those disclosures caused Peter some distress.

"Neal-" Peter began.

"Nathan," Neal corrected through the receiver, "Really Peter, you got to do better. You didn't used to have such a hard time remembering what to call me. Are you so out of practice?"

"Okay, _Nathan,"_ Peter's voice was sarcastic, "How exactly-"

"I am an excellent driver, Peter, there's nothing to worry about."

Of course that wasn't the point, Peter thought, but moved on to the next area of concern. "What appointment-"

"Look, Peter," Neal interrupted impatiently, "I will see you at the meeting; and don't you dare call me Neal."

The call had been disconnected without Peter getting an answer to either of his questions. The first he probably didn't want or need to know. But the second one Peter knew had to do with the current operation. That one he did need to know about. He hoped that after the meeting, and once the agreement had been signed, Neal would be true to his word and give the details they needed to move forward.

The meeting set, everyone was waiting on Nathan Clay; some eagerly and others with obvious reservations.

Peter knew Doug Singleton was genuinely looking forward to meeting Nathan Clay. Of course, he knew Peter and knew the complete story. Elliot, on the other hand, seemed less than thrilled. He looked at his watch, glanced at the door then looked at Peter.

"This source of yours," he began, "this Nathan Clay. What he's offering sounds a little too good to be true. You know what they say _, "Beware Greeks bearing gifts."_ His eyes narrowed, "Do you really trust him?"

The man looked nothing like Mozzie but for some reason he reminded Peter of the man. Perhaps it was the quoting of quotes and his cynical attitude. Peter could understand the man's doubts. He didn't know Nathan Clay, what he had done or what he was capable of.

"Yes I do," Peter answered truthfully. "I'd trust him with my life."

"Well, before I can say the same, I'm going to need to know a little more about the man. Why is he doing this, Agent Burke? What's in it for him?"

It was a complicated question, and Peter didn't know how to respond. He hadn't seen the Terms of Service yet, either. Fortunately, he didn't have to. Nathan Clay had finally arrived.

"That is what we are here to determine." He seemed to have tamed his hair a bit for the occasion, but still looked like he had stepped out of the latest GQ Magazine. His smile was one of amusement. "I guarantee that you will find my terms very reasonable." Looking younger than his years, he didn't look capable of delivering what Peter had promised he could. Peter knew that Elliot was thinking the same thing as he sent a skeptical look in his direction.

"Agent Elliot, Agent Singleton," Peter began, "This is Nathan Clay."

"Nice to meet you both," he replied, extending his hand to each man and shaking them in turn. He had all the confidence of Neal Caffrey and more to boot. "Sorry I was late," he looked at Peter, "I've never actually driven in New York traffic before."


	5. Chapter 5

_Short chapter, but that is just the way things turned out. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I really appreciate you all._

 **Chapter Five**

Once introductions were complete, Nathan Clay, Agent Singleton, Agent Elliot and Agent Burke joined the representative from the Attorney General's office to work out the agreement between all the parties concerned. The agreement was presented in the form of a written contract outlining the terms of Nathan Clay's service.

With what he was prepared to offer, Peter knew that he could write his own ticket. He could ask for the moon and would have a good shot at getting it. But he didn't ask for the moon; his requests were few. This was to be a simple tag and trace; he would provide the location of the initial shipment and the means in which to track it. The information gathered could be used document the key distributors of the Cordero organization in three states: a primary step in bringing it down. In addition to immunity for himself, he wanted assurances that there would be no attempt to find his transportation team. They were not, he told the men, drug traffickers; they simply owed him a favor and he had called it in.

He also wanted to be allowed to keep the compensation Cordero provided; this brought a flurry of questioning glances among the men, but Neal didn't volunteer the amount, or the kind, of compensation he was expecting. The third term was that his name is kept out of all paperwork and a guarantee that when the operation was over, he was free to walk away with no strings attached. He would not, he informed them, be available for any kind of testimony. He had a life to return to in Paris.

The terms were simple and unsurprising; Until the final one. His final term was that Peter Burke remains in a support only role-as he had already been designated-throughout this operation and any that resulted from it. He could assist in coordinating field operations, but he was not, under any circumstances, to directly participate in any of them. In no way, shape or form was he to be in any potential line of fire.

"What the _hell_?" Peter burst out, his expression one of disbelief. "You know this is a case I'm working."

"In a support role," Neal said innocently, "You told me the FBI had limited your role in the investigation because of your personal involvement; This is just to ensure that you don't use me to wiggle your way back into a more active role."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Peter stared at Neal, ignoring the glances passing between the other occupants of the room. "You think you can put me on _desk duty_?" He snorted at the gleam of amusement in Neal's eyes. After all the times he had been relegated to desk duty, he was obviously enjoying the reversal. He swallowed the next words before they could exit his mouth; He had almost said, _"Who do you think you are?"_

Peter looked at his counterpart at Organized Crime. "Don, you asked me in on this case before Mr-" he paused at the name "Clay ever showed up with this offer. I appreciate what he's willing to do" he met Neal's eyes defiantly "But he cannot dictate the way the Bureau," he looked at Elliot, "or the _DEA_ , handles this or future operations." His angry stare fell back on Neal. "He can't tell us who can or can't participate in field operations."

"It's called Terms of Service for a reason," Neal returned, undaunted by Peter's anger. "And without this _term_ there will be no _service_." Neal reiterated, shrugging nonchalantly. "Your choice."

"Look, Agent Burke," Singleton intervened, trying to diffuse the obvious tension in the room. "You were a victim of a crime perpetrated by these people; an agent with personal involvement is _not_ allowed to be involved in the investigation. A supporting role is more than most agents could expect. This," he motioned to the paper before them, "is just saying what the Bureau has already said."

Neal looked like it didn't matter either way, but Peter knew that in spite of what he was saying, he couldn't back out at this point. He already had the shipment on the way. If he didn't follow through, Cordero's people would kill him, and if he did, without immunity, he could be arrested for drug trafficking. Angry at being blindsided, Peter's first instinct was to call his bluff and make threats. That was the way he had always handled a defiant Neal Caffrey.

But as Peter's eyes drilled into Neal's blue ones, readying for his tirade, he didn't see defiance. Neal met Peter's anger with a coolness that told him that nothing he could say, or threaten, was going to change the terms. There was a confidence in his face that even Peter's displeasure hadn't shaken. He glanced at the other occupants of the room. He already knew how this was going to play out. Neal could name his terms, and he had done so. Peter swallowed his tirade, let out the breath he had been holding, and sat back in his chair. Singleton sent an apologetic glance at Peter, and then he and Elliot agreed to all of Neal's terms.

No one asked his reasons for any of his terms; no one asked what Cordero had promised to pay him. No one asked what his people could owe him worth smuggling sixteen and a half million dollars of drugs into a New York harbor. No one even asked how they could accomplish such a feat. No one asked anything. Those trifling details didn't matter.

The Cordero Organization was a key supplier to New York, Pennsylvania as well as several New England states. It was estimated to have generated over 500 million dollars in illegal revenue over the past four years. If the plan worked, the DEA could gather enough information to take down the Cordero organization and dismantle drug trafficking rings from Philadelphia to Boston. Nathan Clay was going to hand them the means to do just that and were willing to give him what he wanted in return.

Peter had sat silently as the deal was signed and sealed by the Attorney General's Office. When Neal's eyes met his over the table, Peter hoped to see some regret or an apologetic expression but there was none. Surprisingly there wasn't even a victorious glint in the blue eyes. Peter found himself looking at his friend as if he were a stranger. He had spent years learning how to handle Neal Caffrey, but dealing with Nathan Clay was something else.

Neal was out of the room the minute the deal was inked, with a promise to be in contact with Elliot later in the day and only a passing glance in Peter's direction. No wonder he hadn't wanted a ride to the meeting; he knew they would not be leaving it on good terms. Peter followed him out and caught him before the elevator he had buzzed had made it to the floor.

"One of your Terms of Service? Already written out?" When Neal didn't respond, Peter continued. "From the minute you showed up at my door you planned to cut me out of this."

"You are here, Peter, you are not _cut out_." Neal didn't turn to face Peter but kept his eyes on the unopened elevator door. "You're role hasn't changed from what you said it was before; _a support role_."

"Yeah, but my role is up to the Bureau, and me, to determine," Peter could hear anger creeping into his voice, "not you in some contract." The doors opened, and Neal stepped inside. When he turned, he met Peter's displeasure with the same detached coolness as before. Peter slapped his hand over the doors preventing them from closing. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Neal didn't flinch under his gaze but met his eyes steadily. "I was thinking about Elizabeth," he replied, "and your son and what losing you would do to them. I can do this," He paused and shook his head slightly. Finally, there was emotion in Neal's eyes; a plea for understanding. "But I won't do it if it puts you in danger."

Peter felt his anger drain away. He released his grip on the elevator door and stepped in beside Neal. His friend had risked his life only months before to bring him back to his family, and he wasn't going to be the one to put him in harm's way now. Peter didn't like the interference, but he did understand it.

Peter chanced a look sideways at Neal. "You could have given me a heads up instead of trotting it out in that meeting."

"Well Peter," his smile was slight. "There was no use upsetting you before I had to."


	6. Chapter 6

_Posting early to avoid having to post on Thanksgiving. Thank you to all who are reading the story and sharing your thoughts on the content. For some reason, this was a hard chapter to write. Also, many thanks for those who take the time to post reviews. That means a lot to me._

 **Chapter Six**

There was no use in keeping the truth about Neal's return from Elizabeth any longer. Peter hadn't lied to her; he had deflected, avoided and not told the whole truth. He found himself doing the wrong thing- _keeping secrets from Elizabeth_ -for the right reason; to protect her.

The problem was that wasn't even the truth. He told himself it was to keep her from worrying, but it was more to protect himself from her anger. What he had done, the way he justified it to himself, sounded so much like Neal Caffrey that it scared him. Over the years, he had hoped to influence Neal's behavior, and maybe he had, but it apparently had gone both ways.

Elizabeth listened as he told the story and confessed his reasons for keeping quiet as long as he had. She took it far better than he had expected, but, of course, he had prefaced the entire topic with the statement that he would not be involved in anything overtly dangerous. He explained everything he knew so far as well as the details of the meeting Nathan Clay had demanded with the Attorney General Office's representative.

"I'm sorry," He said after his confession, "I just didn't want you to worry."

"Peter," she said, "I was already worried; I knew something was up. You've been distracted and had that look on your face," she shook her head, "It's not a look I've seen in a long time, but I know it well. It's your _I'm worried about Neal_ look. You might not be in danger, but how about him?"

"He keeps telling me that it's simple," Peter said, "And compared to some things we've done in the past, I'm inclined to agree with him." He met her eyes. "I don't want you to worry about this."

"But you are worried about this," she observed. "Remember, you have that look."

"I have _that look_ because I won't be there to back him up if he gets into trouble." He couldn't keep the frustration from his voice. The fact that Neal had taken such measures to have him excluded still rankled. "He had no right to interfere in my job like this."

"He has backup, Peter," she reminded him "and the Bureau is limiting your involvement on this case anyway. So his _interference_ was redundant" She paused before adding, "and his motives were good."

Elizabeth, like Singleton at the meeting, was correct about his limited involvement. But when he had managed to get the bureau to let him offer support to Agent Singleton on the Cordero investigation, he figured he would eventually be able to convince them to loosen his constraints. Then, when Neal presented his offer, Peter knew he could use their history to justify a closer, more hands-on, involvement in the case. After all, who knew better how to work with Neal Caffrey than Peter Burke?

But as well as he knew Neal Caffrey, sometimes he forgot that Neal Caffrey knew him, too. Neal had anticipated his plan. Instead of Nathan Clay insisting that Peter be his back up, a term that would undoubtedly have been granted FBI policy notwithstanding, he had headed Peter's entire move off at the pass.

"I know his motives were good," he admitted grudgingly, "they usually are. But this could get dangerous, and if he's out there, I should be out there, too."

"He doesn't want you _out there_ ," her eyes grew stormy, "and neither do I. Your family needs you, Peter, and Neal went all the way to South America to bring you back to us. He wouldn't come here to put you in danger again."

"Elizabeth," Peter began, "My _job_ puts me in danger; when I was taken from that parking garage, Neal Caffrey wasn't even on the continent. We've been over this."

They had been over it many times since the kidnapping. If Elizabeth had her way, Peter would have left the bureau altogether after the incident. But once her emotions calmed some, she had remembered that at his core, Peter was an FBI agent. His job was much more than an occupation; in many ways, his career defined him. She couldn't ask him to give that up, and she hadn't.

Elizabeth didn't reply immediately. "In Paris," she finally said, "When I told him you were in danger, he said _At least this time it isn't my fault_." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "In the past when his actions put others in danger we were pretty hard on him, Peter. He knows your _job_ is dangerous; he just doesn't want to the _reason_ you are in danger. There is a difference."

Peter let out a sigh of resignation; he knew there was a difference. For years, his job had required him to put Neal in danger. At first it hadn't bothered him that much; the FBI used Criminal Informants all the time and Neal Caffrey had a sweet deal. But as time passed, and the lines between CI and friend began to blur, it did bother him. In the end, he had felt he was as responsible for Neal's death as Matthew Keller. He clearly remembered how he had felt as he rounded the corner and saw Neal being loaded into the back of the ambulance; the realization that he had failed his friend. And then, once he was close enough to see the pale face and weak blue eyes, the helplessness that had washed over him. He never wanted to experience those feelings again.

That was why he was so out of sorts about not being allowed in the field with Neal. Neal was in danger, to whatever degree that elevated to, again because of him. He needed to be close by in case anything went wrong. Neal had removed that option, leaving Peter again feeling a sense of helplessness.

"I know there's a difference," he conceded quietly, "but it goes both ways; I don't want him in danger because of me, either. The only reason he's involved with Cordero is because he came after me in Venezuela."

"I know," she answered, "and he only went to Venezuela because I asked him to." She looked at him in sudden concern, "So, if something does happen to him will it be my fault, will you _blame me_?"

" _Of course not_ ," His voice was sharp in surprise at the direction her thinking had taken. "Neal wanted to do this. Hell, he seems to be _enjoying_ himself. You aren't responsible for what he gets himself into."

Her eyes twinkled, concerned look transforming into one of satisfaction.

"Exactly, and neither are you." Point made, she continued. "You are right; he enjoys the challenge something like this presents; _just like you do_. It's who you both are, and it's what you both choose to do. You need to accept that sometimes that will put him in danger; just like I've had to learn to accept the same about you."

"Can you give Neal this same acceptance speech when he comes to dinner?" Peter petitioned. "He made a point to tell me that it wasn't my job to protect him, but he still used that stupid service agreement to try to protect me."

"That's another thing the two of you have in common; trying to control the people around you," She met his eyes steadily, and Peter knew better than to protest. "You rant, bully and strong arm. Neal uses more subtle, yet still effective, tactics. You both manipulate each other, and that needs to stop. You two have to learn to let the other make their own choices."

She was right. Both he and Neal tried to control the actions of those around them; especially each others. Their tactics were different and had evolved like some kind of elaborate game, growing more and more complicated over the years.

"You're right," he acknowledged, "and again, please share these observations with Neal, or Nathan, as he now insists I call him."

"Believe me I will," she smiled, releasing her grasp on his hand, "As soon as you get a day for dinner out of him. I supposed the hold up has been this whole situation. Any idea when it will all wrap up?"

"Not yet," he admitted, "soon I would think. I should find out at the meeting tomorrow. I'm just waiting on the when and where." He paused, concern creeping back into his voice. "I am worried, El. Something seems off about this job dropping in his lap this way."

"It does seem strange that they would offer him, what did you say he called it, a one-time thing?" Elizabeth admitted. "They may see him as an art dealer with no regard for the law, but that's hardly a resume for a drug runner."

Peter had wondered about that as well, as had Singleton and Elliott. The Cordero organization had struggled when the FBI took down their logistics man, but seemed to have reestablished their pipeline at least to some level. Why they would approach Nathan Clay for a one-time delivery had seemed out of the usual. The explanation Neal had given seemed lacking; Alberto's fondness aside, there had to be more to it than that.

"I thought maybe a trap," Peter admitted, "but Neal's right; if they suspected him of anything they'd just kill him. They wouldn't put millions of dollars worth of drugs in his hands."

"You think there is more going on here than Neal is telling you?" she asked. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Either that," Peter nodded, "or there is more going on here than they are telling him."


	7. Chapter 7

**_Never have I tried to post a chapter via my phone. It is quite challenging since my phone is tiny and I can only type one letter at a time. Hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving!_**

 ** _As always, thanks to all who are following this story and reviewing. I so appreciate you!_**

 **Chapter Seven**

"The shipment is 36 kilos," Neal informed Agent Elliott. "Just a little under eighty pounds total. Street value is about 16.5 million dollars," He smiled. "Or so I was told. It isn't my area of expertise."

"I'd love to know what your area of expertise includes," Agent Elliott remarked, "but that is for another day. Please continued." Even though his title was _Agent in Charge_ , James Elliott knew that he was not the one in charge at this meeting. Even the location itself, a restoration room in the back of a Midtown Gallery, had been set by Nathan Clay.

Everyone had arrived by a back entrance; Nathan Clay had waltzed in the front door precisely a half hour later with a manuscript tube in hand. Anyone following his movements would see a gallery owner conducting business in the city. The subterfuge became necessary when Neal detected that he was being followed after his meeting with the Cordero contact the evening before. It hadn't seemed to rattle him in the least; he'd told Peter he had expected as much. He had provided a description of the men and their vehicle. He had even provided the license plate number. How he managed to get the license number of an SUV following him was anyone's guess.

Peter observed Neal during the meeting. Nathan Clay was different from Neal Caffrey in more ways than his wardrobe, hair style, and name. Still brilliant, deceptive and ultimately charming, there was a calmness in Nathan Clay that had been absent in Neal Caffrey. Peter had seen it the day before when Neal had remained unaffected by his angry outburst and he was witnessing it again today as Neal shared the details of the upcoming enterprise with him, Agent Singleton and Agent Elliot.

Neal Caffrey had never been able to sit still. His fidgeting had usually grown more pronounced as the time for an operation drew near. It used to drive Peter crazy; he'd be going over the final details and Neal would be incessantly tapping the table with his pen; it was as if his nervous energy couldn't be contained. But Nathan Clay's posture in the chair opposite of Elliott was relaxed; there was no fidgeting at all. In spite of his artsy, devil-may-care appearance, his demeanor was reserved and confident. The only thing that seemed the same was the look of excitement in his eyes.

"It's part of a pre-set arrangement," Nathan Clay explained, "divided into six packages: three holding eight kilos each and three with four. The three larger packages have destinations outside the city; I handle the one that goes to Philadelphia. The other three packages, I assume, are staying locally." He continued, "My people have put the tracking devices into each package. "

A part of the agreement, no questions were asked about his people or how they were able to bring such a shipment into New York. Everyone assumed it would be by boat, but it could have been by hot air balloon for all the information they were given on that aspect of the operation. In fact, they didn't even know when it was due to arrive.

"This is a list of the specific frequencies," he handed a sheet of paper to Peter, "The trackers have a limited power source so I can't activate them until just before the meeting; and they only have a two hundred yard range. After that, the signal will get spotty. You'll have to stay pretty close once the shipments start rolling." Neal looked at Agent Elliott. "Security is important if you want to follow these shipments through to their distribution points," He warned. "If anyone is tipped that this shipment is somehow tainted, things are going to go bad fast."

Go bad fast for _him_. Peter knew that was what he meant even though he didn't specify it. The danger a leak of information would cause had been on the top of Peter's list of concerns. The three of them had agreed that the operation be kept as a need to know, but with something of this scale, that still included a lot of people. The most crucial aspects had been limited to the three of them and their most trusted associates. Others, including agents, operatives, and under covers, only knew that a large shipment was arriving, and there was going to be a coordinated effort to track it downstream. They had not been made aware of the source of that information or that the shipment had been equipped with tracking devices.

"Security is airtight, Mr. Clay," Agent Singleton assured him. "Very few know that the shipment is tagged. Just us," he nodded to the other two men, "and we only read in those that had to know and that we trust explicitly."

"We'll need access to get the equipment in place before the meeting," Peter added. "We will document everyone that comes and goes with video and time stamp photographs."

"We will have secondary teams set up in different locations throughout the city," Agent Elliott informed, pointing at the map he had lain out on the large work surface. "The first team will relay locations as they go, and as they pass a team, a new tail can pick it up. Offices in Philadelphia, Hartford, and Boston will have teams on standby." He looked at Neal quizzically. "We should be able to track the transport vehicles with no one being the wiser. We just need to know when and where we start, Mr. Clay."

"Northwest Warehouse #52. Hicksville, Long Island. The meeting will be in two days, four in the afternoon," he paused, "I haven't given them the location; I will text them the address an hour before."

"What about Philadelphia," Elliot asked, "What's the location there?"

"Things are a little dicey down there," He sent a reluctant glance in Peter's direction. "Just like me, they won't disclose the location this far ahead."

"Dicey?" Elliott repeated, eyebrows raised. Already concerned about Neal's trip to Philadelphia, his tone did nothing to reassure Peter. "That is putting it lightly." He paused, looking up to meet Neal's eyes. "You sure you want to do that part? Take the shipment down there?"

"Of course I'm sure," Neal seemed almost indignant at the question. "It wasn't an optional part of the agreement; in fact it was a non-negotiable term." He tried to lighten the mood with a smile. "I think they are having some employee problems down there."

"Again, an understatement, Mr. Clay. Are you aware of what has happened to the last two shipments Cordero tried to send into Philadelphia?"

"It might have been mentioned," He admitted. "I think that is why I have the goon squad outside. To make sure this one gets through. Any idea who they are yet?"

"The names we got aren't coming up on any databases; we are pretty sure they're aliases. We have someone running facial recognition on the photos we got from the car rental company," Elliot supplied. Realizing that Nathan was shifting the topic, he returned to it. "No matter what the agreement was, Mr. Clay, you don't have to follow through with it; if you fear reprisal for backing out, we can protect you."

That Elliott would present Neal with the option of backing out told Peter the situation in Philadelphia was worse than he suspected.

"I appreciate the sentiment," Neal seemed sincere, "but I will see it through to the end." Peter didn't like his choice of words. "The man last night," He continued pulling out a telephone. "He gave me this. This is how we exchange meeting location information. I text them mine, and after I get into Philadelphia, they will text me theirs."

"Last chance, Mr. Clay," Elliott said, "Are you sure you want to take this risk? The situation down there is very fluid; anything can happen."

"Absolutely," Neal smiled, leaning back as if he hadn't a care in the world. "That's what keeps it interesting."

Peter rolled his eyes and Elliott shook his head. "Okay, then." Elliot placed a briefcase on top of the unfolded map of the city and opened it. This," he pulled out a small handheld device, "will clone that phone so we can see all communications you send and receive."

Neal handed the phone over, and Elliott quickly completed the sync. He then handed the phone back to Neal and with a glance at the two FBI agents, began to remove additional items from the case.

"We have some equipment for you, Mr. Clay, and we have taken your," he paused, surveying Neal's outfit quickly "unique style into consideration." Peter had to admit; the watch Elliott handed Neal was significantly more stylish than the one he had provided so many times before. "We need to keep track of your movements since additional meetings are unwise."

"A Baume & Mercier," Neal sent a knowing smirk in Peter's direction as he inspected it. "And not even a knockoff. You know," he said as he strapped it on "That before the start of the Le Mans 24 hours in 1979, one of the Riviera models was strapped to the wheel of a BMW M1? When it was removed at the end of the race, it was still in perfect working order."

Elliot looked at Neal a moment before shaking his head slightly and continuing. "It's equipped with a GPS chip as well as a transmitter; you can also take a digital photo by clicking this," he demonstrated. "It will download immediately to our server. Anything you can get from the Philadelphia meeting will be helpful since we won't have access to that location beforehand," He paused, "And anyone you think we need to see before that, just send us a file."

"Will do," Neal said, again admiring his new watch. "I'd say I'll see you guys tomorrow, but I sincerely hope I don't," He looked up with a smile, "But you'll see _me_ tomorrow. Four pm. Hicksville."

"Once you get there," Elliot continued, "we'll be close. If you see there is a problem, say, _"I think we have a misunderstanding",_ and we will move in. But between now and then," he warned, "we need to keep our distance. We can't have Cordero's tail on you spotting us. We'll monitor, but it will be through a relay system."

"That means that if something goes wrong, we won't be able to get there quickly," Agent Singleton added. "You'll have to duck and cover the best you can until we arrive."

"Nothing will go wrong," he smiled in Peter's direction "and if it does, I _excel_ at ducking and covering."


	8. Chapter 8

_Sorry for being late with this chapter! Holiday trip was wonderful but the drive home (fourteen hours) was quite brutal. Thanks for reading and reviewing. :)_

 **Chapter Eight**

The meeting finished up and even though Neal was supposed to leave first, taking Cordero's escorts with him before the others made their exit, Peter stopped him before he could depart.

"Can we talk a minute?" Peter asked. The past two days had been difficult; he had talked to Neal on the phone a couple of times, but contact had been limited. Even in South America, he had only had little more than three hours to talk with him, nowhere near enough to make up for the past two years. Since Neal had been in New York, everything had centered around this operation. The majority of time they had spent together since his arrival in the City had involved other people. There had been no time to talk.

Neal nodded and stepped over near a storage rack holding several paintings. He glanced at the other agents, involved in a conversation of their own. "What's up?"

"You sure about this Philadelphia thing?" Peter had already been concerned, and the information Elliott had disclosed only worried him more.

"Of course I'm sure, Peter," Neal seemed a little impatient with the repeated question. "With all the people tailing me, anyone trying to make a move on the shipment will be in for one hell of a surprise. I'll be fine."

"So you feel good about the coverage that's been put together?" Peter's eyes had left Neal's face and now concentrated on the rack of paintings in front of him.

"Yes, I do," Neal's replied hesitantly, watching in curiosity as Peter flipped through the paintings. His impatience gone in sensing Peter had more on his mind. "No reason to think things won't go the way we've planned." When Peter didn't respond, he continued. "Compared to some of the stuff we've pulled off, this is actually pretty basic."

This wasn't the first time Neal had made that statement, and it still didn't make Peter feel any better. He couldn't help feeling that something bad was brewing for Neal in the city of brotherly love.

The canvas Peter had stopped on looked like someone had thrown up on it. "I really don't understand what some people called art," he commented, looking at Neal. "What's wrong with a nice landscape or bowl of fruit?"

"I could explain the conceptual nature of Contemporary Art, but I don't think that's what you wanted to talk to me about."

"It's just that we haven't had any time to talk since you got here," Peter dropped his voice, his tone betraying his anxiety. "Promise me we're going to get the opportunity." The last time he had let Neal go off on a job it had been the last job Neal Caffrey had ever done.

Peter saw the expression in Neal's eyes change from concern to distress as he realized what was bothering him. Neal reached out and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was unusual for Neal to offer physical comfort, and was probably awkward for him, but he did it.

"I have a pending dinner invitation from Elizabeth Burke," he said gently, "and I have no intentions of missing out on that."

"I don't like that I won't be there if something goes wrong." Peter wasn't talking about dinner and Neal knew it.

"Nothings going to go wrong, and if it does, I have back up," Neal reminded him, dropping his hand back to his side. "You've all done a good job making sure I'm covered. Here, and in Philadelphia."

"It's not the same." Peter didn't know what else to say.

"Things _aren't_ the same," Neal said. "And that's a good thing."

"I know you've made a lot of changes over the past couple of years, and that couldn't have been easy." Peter's hand indicated Neal's hair, then his clothing. "You're Nathan Clay. You live in Paris. You have a new life." He paused before continuing. "But I'm still Agent Peter Burke, living in New York, and it just feels wrong to send you out there like this."

"But you aren't sending me, Peter, I'm choosing to go. I came back for this." His eyes grew serious, "You're not putting me in danger, and I am not putting you in danger; we're just working together. It's the way it should be." His eyes grew distant. "It's the only way it _can be."_

His words reminded Peter of the conversation he had with Elizabeth. Things had changed, and both he and Neal had to learn what that meant for each of them, especially if Neal was considering a return to New York. He had wanted to talk to Neal ever since he arrived, but they had no opportunity. He wanted that chance desperately.

He nodded, and this time, it was his hand that found its way to Neal's shoulder. Neal's hand had rested gently on his, but Peter found himself squeezing Neal's shoulder tightly instead.

"Please be careful, Neal. If anything looks suspicious; if you even get a hint that something is wrong, you give the word and let them move in." Peter knew he's slipped on the name, but Neal didn't correct him. "None of this is worth you getting hurt for."

Something flickered in Neal's eyes, and it took him a moment to respond. "I'm always careful, Peter," Neal assured him, "but I'll be especially careful this time." He glanced at the other men, no longer engaged in conversation but watching them curiously. "They are waiting for me to get out of here," he said, "Everything will be fine, Peter." With that and a nod to the other men, he disappeared through the door back into the main Gallery.

"I must say," Agent Elliot remarked when Peter rejoined him, "I had my doubts, but Clay seems very capable." He glanced in the direction Neal had exited. "He looks like a rock star but acts like an agent."

"He's a man of many skills," Peter said quietly. "He can accomplish almost anything when properly motivated."

"Apparently so," Elliott said. "He went to Venezuela, somehow became a house guest of Alberto Cordero and arranged for your rescue when you were kidnapped." His smile was slight. "I take it his motivation was your friendship?"

The man had not interfered with him and Neal's exchange, but Peter knew he had, if not heard the words exchanged, seen the sentiment. Peter met his eyes. "It was."

"And his motivation for this?" Peter knew he was genuinely curious. He had mentioned more than once his questions about how this opportunity had come to them. First, he didn't understand why Cordero would suddenly hire a Gallery owner to move drugs and secondly, why said Gallery owner would accept such an offer. The second question was easy to answer; the first concerned Peter as well.

"The same. He knows I want to take these people down," Peter said, but added with a small smile, "and between you and me, he enjoys the challenge."

"I can see that," he noted, "but pulling off these kinds of things not only takes guts but talents not usually associated with the gallery owning set. And no offense Burke, but I don't see the two of you forging such a friend during art class. It seems more the forged by fire type friendship to me."

"It has been," Peter replied. "We've worked together before."

"I figured as much," Elliott admitted. "He's too good not to have done this kind of thing before." He paused. "But there might be some things going on that he's not aware of."

"Such as?"

"I've been coordinating with the Philadelphia Violent Drug/Gang Task Force. The war down there between the Cordero's and Corvi's has been ongoing, but something happened last week has caused an uptick in chatter across multiple arenas."

Neal had spent the last week in Philadelphia and when he admitted that he didn't know the location for the meeting it had begged the question of what exactly he'd been taking care of the week before. Peter had a suspicion that Neal might not only be aware of what had happened; he might have caused it.

"What?" Peter asked, mining for more information.

"It's not clear," Elliott said, "Cordero introduced an obscene amount of money into his Philadelphia operations. A lot of money changed hands. His people also made some deals with several of Corvi's rivals. That was picked up by some eavesdropping surveillance that the task force has in place."

"They're buying allies," Peter commented, "Getting ready for battle."

Elliott nodded. "So is the Corvi Gang. The timing of all this concerns me. I just hope your friend Clay knows what he's walking into."


	9. Chapter 9

_We are getting there, I promise._ Just a little change of perspective before the action starts.

 **Chapter Nine**

Neal let the hot water of the shower wash over him, eyes closed, and concentrated on the feel of it beating on his upturned face. This was to be expected, he reminded himself, nothing he had not anticipated. His life in Paris as Nathan Clay was easier because he kept it free of emotional entanglements. Here in New York, that was impossible.

Since his return to the city, his sleep had been less than stellar. At least once each night, sometimes more, he was awakened by what he chose to call fitful dreams. Not always nightmares, they came in varying degrees of intensity. Sometimes they were instantly forgotten upon waking, merely an interruption in his slumber. Other times, like the one from this morning, they seemed to linger and give him a sense of unease.

He had awakened with a start and tightness in his chest that he hadn't felt in nearly two years. He had vacated the bed, dressed and been in the fitness room before 5:15 a.m. The inexplicable need to run away was met by a strenuous dash on the treadmill. It helped him work through the tension, and an hour later, sweaty and feeling more in control, he returned to his suite to shower.

His conversation with Peter at the Gallery the previous evening had exemplified the concept of _emotional entanglement_. Peter was afraid that something would go wrong during the operation and Neal knew that the memory of their last operation together was heavy on his mind. The anxiety in his eyes reminded Neal of the depth of hurt his friend had experienced; hurt that he had caused.

When he planned the demise of Neal Caffrey he had known that it would be painful to those he left behind. However, it would be less painful than what he was afraid would happen if he didn't choose such an extreme solution. Of all, he had felt most sorry for Mozzie. Mozzie was like him; he had no family and no one to turn to for comfort. He had hoped his attachment to June, Diana and Theo would lesson the emptiness his leaving would create. He also knew that Mozzie was accustomed to heartache and was resilient; he would find a way to overcome. He had felt bad for Peter, but it was different. Peter had Elizabeth and a child on the way. He had his job, his friends, and a life that had been full long before Neal Caffrey entered it. He knew the loss would hurt but he had justified it by reminding himself how much he had complicated Peter's life; how much trouble he had brought into it. Even when he had tried to do right, to help, things had somehow always gone wrong. Peter had been angry _at_ him, and disappointed _in_ him, over and over. He had rather be a bittersweet memory to Peter than an active thorn in the side, or worse, someone he came to resent.

But at the gallery the day before, when Peter had told him to be careful and that nothing was worth him getting hurt, Neal had felt a lump rise in his throat. The sudden emotion had caught him off guard and it took him a moment to regroup. Peter cared about him apart from what he could do; what benefit he could be to his career or a case. He could see it in his eyes. It was the second time since his return that Neal had felt shaken.

The first time had been when Elizabeth had introduced him to her son, the son she and Peter had named after him. Doubts about having returned had rushed him; it had been, after all, learning that a little Burke was coming into the world that helped him make the decision to leave in the first place. Feeling Peter's eyes on him, he had recovered quickly; he knew his plan was solid. The Cordero organization would come down, and Peter would not be put in any danger. No one he cared about would be.

He had known returning would present a challenge outside the job he had been contracted to do as well as the one he had chosen to do. It wasn't dealing with drug dealers or working with Federal authorities that was the most difficult for him; it was dealing with the Burkes. Peter, Elizabeth and Neal. Seeing them had been both wonderful and terrifying, making him want to stay and run away at the very same time. It was a confusing sensation to say the least. Unsettling, even.

But he had felt unsettled ever since Elizabeth had come to Paris seeking his help, and even then if he hadn't seen Peter he could have gone back to his life. But he had seen Peter and Peter asked him to come home; asked _Neal Caffrey_ to come home. Neal Caffrey had wanted to say yes right then, but Nathan Clay didn't let emotion override his judgment. Just because an offer was tempting didn't make it the right thing to do, either for himself or anyone else. He needed to go back to Paris, gather his thoughts, and return to his strict _no contact_ rule. He needed to give his emotions time to settle.

But just that brief contact had reminded him of how empty his life was and his resolve to follow the _no contact_ rule began to fail after only a month. By the middle of the following month, he had picked up the phone and called Peter. Peter's number never changed; just like the man himself. It was something you could count on.

"Burke." Neal's first instinct upon hearing his friend's voice was to hang up, but he knew Peter would instantly associate a Paris number with him. At his pause, his guess was confirmed. "Neal?"

"Hey, Peter." He felt a moment of panic; he didn't know why he had called or what he wanted to say. "I just," he stumbled, "wanted to make sure you had recovered from…your ordeal." His decision to call had been impulsive; he should have known better. He _had_ known better, the told himself; he had just done it anyway. Neal Caffrey's impulsiveness had trumped Nathan Clay's _think it through_.

"I'm good," There was relief in Peter's voice; he had thought the call was because something was wrong. "Elizabeth has made sure I'm back as fit as a fiddle, as they say. How are you? Any problems?"

"Not a one," he responded. "Everything is good, really, just like I said it would be." Usually gifted at gab, he was struggling to make even meaningless conversation.

"That's good to hear." Peter waited for him to say something else, but he was at a loss. After a moment of awkward silence, Peter continued. "I've talked the Bureau into letting White Collar help out with the Cordero Case. Since I technically am a victim of one of their suspected crimes, they will only let my office help with tracking transactions and things like that, but at least I get to keep apprised of where the case is."

Neal felt himself immediately relax. The case; a safe topic. "So what have they come up with so far?" Two hours later, Neal hung up the phone feeling better than he had in a long time. That had been three months ago.

Now, he was in New York. He had sat on the Burke's new sofa, petted Satchmo and met Neal Burke. If things went well, he would be having dinner at their house tomorrow afternoon. He planned to bring a bottle of Coche-Dury Les Perrieres to commemorate the occasion.

He had talked to Peter a half dozen times in the past three days and yet he found his phone in his hand, seriously contemplating calling him. Why? What did he want to say that couldn't wait? Just like before, he didn't know but found himself dialing the number in spite of it.

"Burke." Even at 6:30 a.m. he sounded the same. His consistency was one thing Neal appreciated about Peter. Just the sound of his voice pushed away the remaining discomfort from the morning's nightmare.

"Good morning, Peter," His voice upbeat, cheerful. "Sleep well?"

"Not really," He could tell Peter was surprised by such an early call. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Neal answered, "I just wanted to…" he paused. Wanted to what? _Say good morning_? _Ask how he slept?_ "…let you know that I'm looking forward to dinner tomorrow evening." Dinner, really? He felt his face flush in embarrassment.

"You called at 6:30 in the morning to tell me that?" The concern in Peter's voice just made the situation worse. He didn't want Peter to worry. That, he realized, was why he had called. He didn't want Peter to worry.

"Everything will be fine this afternoon, Peter," he blurted out, his purpose now clear. "I don't want you to worry about me."

"It's not that simple," Peter replied, his tone slightly humorous. " _I worry_. It's what I do. You know that."

But it was more than not wanting Peter to worry; Neal didn't want him to feel responsible if something went wrong. Not that he thought it would, but just in case. Peter's feelings of guilt were something Neal hadn't taken into account before; guilt was what had made his death so hard for Peter to deal with.

"This is a simple operation, but if," his voice urged Peter to hear him, "for some reason, anything does go wrong, its all on me. I chose to do this; no one forced me. I came up with the plan. I even made sure you couldn't be involved. You are not responsible for any of it." He paused, the anxiety in his voice as he continued matching Peter's from the day before _"Tell me you know that."_

There was a pause before Peter responded to his outburst. "I know that I'm not responsible if anything goes wrong and I know this was your choice. But Neal- _Nathan_ ," he emphasized the name, indicating to Neal acceptance of some sort, "You have got to let me be responsible for my own choices as well. You've got to extend the same courtesy you _expect from_ me, _to_ me. Understand?"

"I understand." Neal had always felt Peter kept double standards but he realized that he, too, had been guilty of the same in this instance. "I just wanted to make sure we were clear on things." There was a knock at his door; saved by room service. "My breakfast has arrived, Peter. I'll call tonight on my way back to the city."

"I might be stuck in Singleton's office, but I'll be listening in," Peter reminded him. "Be smart and be careful," He paused, "I am looking forward to that dinner tomorrow night myself."

"I will," Neal promised, "Tell Elizabeth I'm bringing a bottle of the wine she had in my office in Paris."

"The $1,500 wine?" Peter again sounded surprised. "You must have a seriously generous expense account."

"Oh Peter," Neal replied, opening the door to the young man with his breakfast cart. "You have no idea how generous."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The early morning phone call from Neal was still on Peter's mind as he made his way to Agent Singleton's office. He had found himself thinking back to their brief exchange all day. In his experience as an agent, he knew that although it would have huge repercussions, the operation itself was not a highly dangerous one. The biggest threat had been security; the chance that something could be said to the wrong person and word could get back to the Cordero Organization. Everyone had taken great pains to keep the operation at the highest level of need to know. There had been no chatter picked up on current surveillance that indicated that any leaks had occurred. Neal had insisted more than once that this was a simple tag and trace.

Of course, even the most simple operations had been known to go awry, and the Philadelphia aspect was more problematic. But Neal was very capable of improvising if things got off course. He had wiggled out of tight situations, saved operations and worked nothing short of miracles many times before. He was well covered, and backup could be on site in minutes. Peter knew Neal felt comfortable with the plan. Compared to the risk he had taken in Venezuela, this was a walk in the park. The only difference was that Peter hadn't known about that one until it was over.

The call had surprised Peter but had been something Neal had felt compelled to do; he had heard it in his voice. As composed as Nathan Clay had consistently been, he had heard a bit of Neal Caffrey over the line during the early morning call.

Neal had changed; Peter had seen the subtle differences all along. Nathan Clay was steady; more sure of himself. Even when Peter had been angry with him at the meeting he had not responded in the usual way. There had been no heated retort or defense; there hadn't even been the briefest flash of hurt in the blue eyes before he closed them down and withdrew in silence. That was what had stifled Peter's tirade at the time; the way Nathan Clay had handled his disapproval with ease, completely unaffected. He was completely committed to what he had done, and Peter's anger hadn't shaken him one bit. That had been the moment he felt he really met Nathan Clay. He had found Neal again at the elevator but in the room, negotiating his terms of service and meeting Peter's glare without a flinch, it had been all Nathan.

Nathan lived in Paris, ran what appeared to be a very successful Art Gallery and kept his life very simple. He had made a point to distance himself from his past, and all the emotions that past evoked. According to Elizabeth, Mozzie was even kept at a distance. He had used that time to make changes in both his life and his personality; the result of those changes was the man he was now.

That man had set these events into motion and had planned every aspect before he ever brought it to Peter. He had created terms of service that were very clear and specific. Everything seemed to have been done methodically and deliberately except the term concerning Peter. That, Peter knew, had been emotionally motivated. The same thing had prompted the early morning call. The term had been about ensuring Peter wasn't physically hurt; this morning, the call had been to make sure he wasn't hurt in other ways.

 _It's all on me_ ; he had said, _You are not responsible for any of it._

It was important to him that Peter knew that if anything did go wrong today and things ended badly, it was not his fault. One of Neal's faults was that he didn't always think about the consequences of his actions; Nathan Clay seemed to think about them very much. He had tried to reassure Neal that he understood, as well as to remind him that he needed to learn to trust Peter to make his own choices as well. He looked forward to a longer discussion on that topic. Hopefully, over dinner tomorrow afternoon.

He had spent the morning at the White Collar office and had caught Jones looking at him curiously more than once. They knew the role White Collar was to play in the Cordero investigations, and he also knew Peter. For that reason, Peter's closer involvement with Singleton didn't really surprise anyone. Peter remembered Elizabeth's comment about the look he had had on his face for the past several days. She had correctly identified it as the I'm worried about Neal look, but since Jones thought Neal Caffrey was dead, he was probably at somewhat of a loss.

Peter joined Agent Singleton at his office just past three pm. Agent Elliott already had a team set up surveillance at the Hicksville location and from Singleton's office Peter would be able to observe at least the action that was to take place.

Elliot called in, testing their radio communication. Not only would they be able to hear and see what was happening inside the warehouse, they would also be able to follow the outside operational chatter as well.

"Clay sent the meet location about five minutes ago," Elliot's voice crackled through the machine. One of Singleton's tech people made an adjustment and the next words were clearer. "He will be arriving shortly himself to activate the tracking devices. How is the sound on your end?" He paused. "Is Burke there yet?"

"I'm here," _As opposed to being out there, where I should be_ , Peter thought to himself. "We are getting clear sound and good images from the warehouse."

There wasn't much to see; the space was relatively small. The warehouse was sectioned off, and the number 52 was approximately nine hundred square feet. One camera had been placed out of sight in the air circulation vent located high up in the center back wall and the second in a mass of pipes and wiring that edged the top right wall. The second camera, placed near the center of the room, would catch a good image of everyone entering the room; the other had a wider view of the entire area. Two pole camera's had been set up outside the warehouse to get the make model and license number of each vehicle that arrived on the scene.

There were several containers in the space. Two appeared to be ten by ten shipping crates with no identifying markings on them. Three smaller ones had FRAGILE stenciled on them. Peter knew that one of the crates held the shipment Neal had been hired to bring in from South America. What the other contained was anyone's guess. He wondered if the space was one of the many that Neal Caffrey had rented in various cities to store his ill-gotten gains. After all, the Pre-Columbian artifacts Neal had come up with four months earlier had to have come from somewhere.

"That's good. We are set here as well. I have no idea which of these containers is holding sixteen million dollars in illegal drugs," Apparently Peter wasn't the only one whose curiosity had been fueled by the containers in the room. "Agent Burke, does your friend Mr. Clay do a lot of business in the city?"

That was his way of asking Peter if he had any idea what was in the other containers in the storage area. "I have no idea," Peter replied, "But I am sure he's making the most of his time here."

"I see him as the opportunistic type," Elliot commented, "which does lead one to wonder what else he might have brought into the city with that shipment."

Of course he was opportunistic, Peter thought. That was the whole reason they had this opportunity to bring down one of the biggest drug rings on the East Coast.

"He is an _entrepreneur_ ," Peter adjusted the descriptive term slightly, "and the time for questions has passed, Agent Elliot."

"Yes, I guess it has," He heard the agent chuckle, "I just wanted to let you know that everything is still a go. I will be part of the detail that follows him to Philadelphia, too." He paused, his tone growing more serious. "I talked to him this morning, Agent Burke. We got some additional information on the men who are following him that I wanted to make him aware of."

Peter waited for Elliot to continue. "We've identified them as part of a four-man team that flew into Philadelphia two weeks ago. They do handle security down in Bogota, but they are also referred to as a cleanup crew."

"Cleanup crew?" Peter repeated even though he had a good idea what that meant. Two weeks ago was when Nathan Clay had also arrived in Philadelphia. "Do you think they were the reason for the chatter that was picked up down there?"

"A good chance of it," he confirmed. "The Cordero family is having problems in Philadelphia and these men have likely been sent to do some housecleaning."

"But they are here following Nathan; not in Philadelphia." Peter pointed out.

" _Two_ of them are here," Elliot corrected, picking up on the concern in Peter's voice. "The other two stayed in Philadelphia. Look, Agent Burke, there is no reason to suspect that they are any threat to Clay. They're just following him to ensure the shipment gets to its intended recipients."

"It just gives more reason to suspect that things may get violent down there." Neal hated violence of any kind and Peter doubted that Nathan Clay felt any differently. He wouldn't want to be a part of, or witness to, any housecleaning activities the men had planned. Of course, as it was he might not have much of a choice. "So you told him all this?"

"I did," Elliot confirmed.

"Did he seemed worried?" He knew it was a stupid question; even if Neal was worried he wouldn't show it. Especially to Agent Elliot.

"Does he _get_ worried?" Elliot asked seriously, "If so, he hid it well. He sounds confident that whatever is planned in Philadelphia will take place after his drop is made. I gave him another opportunity to back out and he again declined."

"Of course he did," Peter paused, suddenly compelled like Neal had been earlier to get his point across. "I can't be there, Agent Elliot," he said, "so I am counting on you to keep him safe."

The pause was slight. "I promise I will do my best, Agent Burke."

Peter and Singleton were able to see exactly the happenings in Hicksville, beginning with the arrival of Nathan Clay at 3:30 pm. He arrived early and activated the tracking devices, giving everyone an indication which of the containers was holding the product to be transported. He did not seem interested in the others, so the curiosity of what they held was not quelled in the least.

As he watched, Peter was again amazed at the calmness of Nathan Clay. He did not pace the small space in anticipation as he waited for the others to arrive. After activating the tracking devices, he approached a small table that was set near the right wall; two chairs were pulled up to it. Pulling one out, he sat down, reclining much the way Peter had seen him do so many times before. He smiled when Nathan Clay propped his expensive shoes up on the table and crossed his legs. Some things had changed; some had not.

"Considering there is a hit squad tailing him and who knows what's coming in Philadelphia, I'd think he'd be a little uptight," Singleton asked, studying the scene at the warehouse in disbelief. There was nothing in Nathan Clay's demeanor indicating he was anything but at ease with the situation. "Is he really that relaxed?"

"He probably is." Peter was already tired and the main event hadn't even started. He had forgotten how exhausting worrying about Neal could be. "And that's okay; I'm uptight enough for the both of us."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Five men arrived at the warehouse between four and four-twenty. It was clear who was punctual; those with the most distant to travel. They could have been dinner guests by the way Nathan Clay greeted them, shook their hands and flashed them his best smile. They didn't seem exactly sure of how to take him; he obviously was not the type of courier they were accustomed to meeting. Three of the five simply grunted, took their packages and left. The other two actually engaged in a brief conversation with their host. As each shipment left the warehouse area, it was picked up to be tracked to it's intended destination.

Other than the deployment information, outside chatter had been minimum.

By four-fifty, Nathan Clay exited the warehouse, sending a bright smile towards the pole camera before securing the warehouse door. He was obviously pleased with the evening events so far. Peter was too; for a sixteen million dollar drug deal, it had gone amazingly well. Simple. Fast. Non-violent. He hoped the Philadelphia meet went as well but he had his doubts.

 _"Looks like this one is a wrap; on to the next one," Elliot said through the radio. "Those with me, get ready to move when Clay's comes through."_

Having re-entered his car, Neal was now out of view, but not out of hearing. He utilized the watch Elliot had provided to take an opportunity to address Peter personally.

"I know you are listening, Peter," He said, closing the door. "Everything went just like I said it would. Simple. Without a hitch. With no surprises."

"Burke." Singleton's tone of concern was unnecessary; Peter saw that two men had suddenly appeared from just outside the camera view and were approaching Neal's car. So had Elliot.

 _"Who the hell is that? Where did they come from?"_

"Now, we just have one more, minor-" The sound of the car door opening stopped Neal mid-sentence. One of the men slipped into the passenger seat beside him.

"Señor Clay," came a heavily accented voice. "I must insist that we join you." The second man entered the vehicle as well, taking his place directly behind Neal.

"Not to be rude," Neal's voice was calm but no longer amused, "but I don't like being in close proximity with people I don't know; especially when they carry guns and enter my car without an invitation."

So much for no surprises, thought Peter.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for reading my story (my stories) and posting reviews. Reviews keep me inspired to continue to write in spite of the hectic schedule this time of year brings to us all._

 **Chapter Eleven**

 _"Get ready to move."_

Elliot's voice across the radio was tense; two men approaching Neal at the warehouse had not been anticipated. All parties had known the Philadelphia leg of the journey would be the most dangerous; The Corvi and Cordero families were revving up for war, and there would be no time to set pre-meet surveillance. It was also highly probable that a move to intercept the delivery at some point might occur; they just hadn't expected it to take place here. But if that was what this was, they were in a much better position to keep Neal safe. Not sure of who the men were or what level of threat they presented, both Peter and Agent Singleton held their breath. Agent Elliott was ready to move if Neal gave the signal.

"I apologize," the man answered Neal's complaint politely. "Perhaps introductions will help lessen your apprehension. I am Eduardo, and my associate is Matías."

 _"Everyone, just hold positions," Elliot said. "Let's see what this is."_

The introduction didn't lessen Peter's apprehension nor had it erased what Peter guessed was a look of, at the very least, mild alarm on Neal's face. The man's words confirmed Peter's interpretation of the scene in the car.

"Relax, Señor Clay," the man urged. "We are here to keep you safe. We have orders to accompany you to Philadelphia."

There was a slight paused before Neal responded. "I've seen you before; you've been following me for three days. Why the sudden need to crowd me?"

Neal's words brought relief to those who were listening; Peter felt his shoulders drop, and there was an audible sigh from Agent Singleton.

 _"He's good; stand down." Elliot's voice, too, indicated his relief._

The view from the pole camera hadn't given any clear image of the men, and their vehicle had not been in sight, but Neal had now identified them. They were the same men who had been following him; what they had assumed was Cordero's ordered protection detail. Of course, they had learned the men filled other roles as well, so Eduardo's statement of intent was a welcome confirmation. It was understandable why men had chosen to stick closer with the venue changing from New York to Philadelphia. The past two shipments had not made it and those delivering hadn't lived to tell why. The men may part of a team sent to clean up the Philadelphia mess, but if their job was to keep Neal safe in the process, Peter was glad they were here.

"You've been aware of that, have you?" the man chuckled, "I suspected as much. Did you really have business at three dozen galleries in two days or was that for our benefit?"

Peter heard the sound of the engine as Neal started the car. He could almost visualize the look on Neal's face by the tone of his voice.

"I _am_ an art dealer," He replied. "Plus one should never pass up an opportunity to enrich their cultural experience. I did notice that you stopped coming inside; that's too bad. I think you would have enjoyed the Jackson Pollock exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art."

 _"I guess we know why he chose a Midtown gallery for the meeting," Elliot commented, "He wore them down with art exposure so they wouldn't follow him in."_

Agent Singleton looked at Peter in amusement. "Good plan."

If only they knew, Peter thought. "He's been known to have a few."

"Perhaps another time, Señor Clay," Eduardo was saying, "This visit has been all business; there are serious problems we have been sent to rectify."

"Problems to rectify?" Neal sounded a bit nervous, probably hoping he didn't fall into that category. "And I thought you were here to protect me, or rather," he clarified with a laugh, "my cargo."

Neal had been briefed about Eduardo and his team and knew they had been sent to the States for more than protection detail; he was fishing for additional information. They had most likely been deployed to deal with some aspect of the Cordero-Corvi situation, but specifics would be helpful. Especially since Philadelphia was their current destination.

 _"The transmission may cut in and out once we get mobile," Elliot informed. "We'll stay close, but close enough to catch every word will be tricky. We will do the best we can."_

"Problem solving is our specialty, and we are the best there is," Eduardo was saying, his confidence sure. "Our current assignment has been to find a solution to the problem in Philadelphia; ensuring the delivery of your cargo is part of that process."

"Well, I glad of that," Neal admitted. He hesitated before continuing. "I've been worried about this part of the job. I was told what happened to the others."

Singleton sent a questioning look in Peter's direction. Nothing had indicated thus far that Nathan Clay was in the least bit worried about anything. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. The shift in his tone, and his attitude, surprised Singleton. But not Peter.

Given enough time, Neal could make most people comfortable enough to lower their guard and open up. In the past, he had used that skill for financial gain. He had persuaded people to share information that would have been best kept to themselves such as security codes and bank account numbers. His tactics were varied; he picked the ruse most likely to work on any given subject.

Quickly having assessed Eduardo, Neal had determined the best way to put the man at ease. Assuming the role of an uncertain courier, grateful for protection, would only inflate Eduardo's already overblown ego. Egotistical people often bragged about their exploits, betraying confidences and confessing to crimes they otherwise would have walked away from. It was a game that no one played better than Neal Caffrey. Or, in this case, Nathan Clay. It was a long way to Philadelphia; if anyone could get information out of these men, it would be him.

"There is no need to worry, Señor Clay," Eduardo reassured him, rising to the role of protector. "You will not share their fate. It's been a complicated process of elimination, but we are quickly moving towards a resolution to the problem."

Peter wasn't the only one who had picked up on what Neal was doing; Elliot was no fool and recognized talent when he saw it. Or, in this case, heard it.

 _"He's got him talking," Elliot observed._

Singleton shook his head in disbelief. "You said he was good."

"He's the best I've ever seen," Peter reiterated. "He's like a chameleon; he adjusts to become whatever the situation requires."

"How quickly?" Neal asked. "As much as I appreciate your coming along to keep me out of trouble, I don't want to be around for the _rectifying_ part." He laughed nervously. "This isn't my thing, you know. I hate violence." The authenticity of his words rang true and for good reason.

"Then you should reevaluate your choices in the future," Eduardo suggested. "This is a violent business. We expect to finish our business here soon; we fly back to Bogota tonight."

 _"A text has just been sent to Clay's phone," Elliot said. "324 E. Lawrence Street. 6:45 p.m. Converge and set up coverage. Trace that address and tell me what's there."_

"Tonight, that is quick," Neal said. A moment later he spoke again. "I have the place and time of the meeting; Lawrence Street 6:45 p.m."

"You can disregard that message, Señor Clay," Eduardo stated, "We will be meeting at 35 North 23rd Street instead. I will provide directions."

 _"Hold on that," Elliot belayed. "There may be a change.'_

"I don't understand," Peter could hear an element of concern in Neal's voice. The presence of the men, supposedly to see the shipment through to its destination, had instilled some degree of security, but now that security was questionable. He imagined playing the role of the uncertain courier was taking less acting at this point. "I was instructed to go to the location that was sent to me on this phone."

"And if you did that, you would meet the same fate as those you were told about."

"So you _say_ ," Neal sounded doubtful. "When I took this job my instructions were clear; to deliver my cargo to the address I was given via this phone. Now you are changing the location?" Neal allowed fear to creep into his voice. "How do I know you're not the ones who've been hijacking the shipments all along?"

"I understand your dilemma but regardless of your misgivings, I must insist that you proceed to the new location."

Having stated his objections, Neal had no choice in the matter. "Is the meeting time the same?"

"It's been moved it to 8:30 p.m.," Eduardo supplied. "We still have some loose ends to tie up before we conclude our business."

"That's two hours. What do we do between now and then, _sightsee?"_ The sarcasm hinted irritation but Peter doubted Neal was as displeased as his voice indicated. The concern the change in venue stirred was partially offset by the fact that the change in time provided more opportunity for Elliot to get back up in place. It was a small consolation.

"The meeting will be in an Art Gallery," Eduardo informed him. "It's closed for an installation, but they have a permanent collection you might find interesting. After all, what is it you say? One should never pass up an opportunity to enrich their cultural experience." He seemed amused to have turned the phrase back on its originator.

"I always welcome the chance to peruse a good collection," Neal paused before repeating the address slowly. "35 North 23rd Street. I know where that is. I won't need directions."

"You are acquainted with it?" The man seemed mildly surprised. "Have you been there before?"

Peter guessed it was one of the galleries Nathan Clay had visited during his time in Philadelphia. Exactly what his business had been there remained a mystery. Whatever his it was, it must not have put him into direct contact with Eduardo and his henchmen.

"It's on the market," Neal explained. "I was thinking about buying it." Neal had only half answered the question.

"You are thinking about relocating to the states?"

There was no reason for Neal to answer truthfully but no reason to lie, either. In such situations, he usually stuck with the truth. Peter felt himself grow curious as to what answer he would give to the question.

"I'm considering it," He admitted. "But there's a lot to think through in a move this big." That sounded to Peter like the truth.

"Life changes can be difficult and must not be taken lightly," the man agreed. "A wrong choice can have unfortunate consequences."

"But the right one can provide great opportunity," Neal countered. "The gallery's current owner has fallen on hard times," he explained, "it's not closed for an installation; it's closed because he doesn't have the capital to reopen. I could get his entire business for an excellent price."

Neal's contemplation on his business plan was interrupted during the next several minutes as the transmission became spotty and those listening were only able to pick up a few words at a time. It was fortunate that the signal had held out until after the change of venue; had that conversation occurred during the blackout, the movements of Neal and his escorts would have been quite confusing.

It was still troubling to be cut off in this way; other changes could be made and valuable information exchanged and they would have no way of knowing what it was. Finally, the signal picked up strength. When more than three words at a time began to come through, it was clear the topic of conversation had shifted from business to pleasure. He hoped the nervous rambling was just Neal staying in character, but he was sure he was pulling from some real feelings of apprehension to sell the role.

"…an expansive arts and culture scene and the most dramatic skyline of any city I've ever visited," Neal was saying, "To an artist, the Midtown Manhattan skyline, with the spires of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, is inspiring. Had you been to the city before this trip?"

"I've been to New York twice; for business," Eduardo volunteered, "but I've not spent enough time to be captivated by it like you clearly are."

"Captivated?" Neal seemed to find the word amusing. "I don't know about that, but it doesn't take long to feel at home there. Someone once said that a person belongs to New York instantly, as much in five minutes as in five years. When were you there last time?"

"About five months ago," Eduardo supplied, "but that trip was even shorter than this one."

Peter felt his heart rate increase slightly. Five months ago he had been snatched from a parking garage. The momentary pause before Neal replied make Peter wonder if he, too, had recognized the time frame of Eduardo's last visit. It was Neal; of course he had.

"More problem-solving I take it?" Just polite conversation, but Peter picked up on the change of tone.

"Yes," Eduardo confirmed, "We performed an extraction to provide the leverage needed in a negotiation."

An Extraction. With that word Peter knew that the man talking with Neal was one of those who had taken him. Before, when the men were unknown and unidentified, he had faced the real possibility that he would never find those responsible. But all that now changed; the same men sent to clean up the problems in Philadelphia had been sent to kidnap him. Peter's heart was now pounding.

"You mean you were there to _kidnap_ someone?" Neal's tone was now sharp; Peter guessed that his heart wasn't the only one that had increased its pace.

From the beginning of his conversation with Eduardo, Neal had portrayed himself as unassuming and timid; as someone clearly out of his element. This persona had led Eduardo into revealing details he might otherwise have kept to himself. But with the realization that these men had been responsible for Peter's kidnapping, there was a change.

Eduardo neither confirmed nor denied. "We do what we are ordered to do," he stated firmly. "Our job was a simple one, and we executed it perfectly." There was a hint of irritation in his voice. "However, the negotiations later fell apart."

Peter felt his face flush with anger; A simple one, the man had said. Simple to ambush and drug him. Simple to smuggle him into a foreign country and hold him prisoner for weeks. Simple to separate him from his family, put him through hell and terrify his wife. Elizabeth still had nightmares; so did he, but he didn't talk about them.

"Agent Burke?" Singleton's voice snapped him from his thoughts. The man was looking at him in concern. Momentarily distracted, he didn't know how much time had passed as he sat there, clenching his fists and reliving his weeks in that small room. Elliot's voice was coming through the radio; he had missed the first part of the conversation.

 _"…launch an investigation into these men and their movements five months ago," He was saying. "But right now, we have to keep our focus on the job at hand; we can't let personal feelings interfere with the current operation."_

Agent Elliot had apparently come to the same conclusion about the kidnapper's identities and was concerned about how Peter might react. What did he expect, Peter wondered? For him to jump in his car and go after the men himself? It wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed his mind, but it was hardly practical.

The Agent in him knew that Elliot was right; they had to see the operation through and investigate the men afterward. But the man in him had a hard time with the knowledge that his kidnappers would be flying to Bogota later tonight, free and clear from prosecution in spite of what any later investigation turned up.

"I know that," Peter's frustration came through in spite of his effort to reel it in. "And even if I wanted to interfere, I can hardly do it from here."

"That can happen," Neal was speaking again. "Sometimes even the simplest jobs can come back to haunt us." His voice was calm, and his statement held conviction.

"I don't think it's you he's worried about, Agent Burke," Singleton remarked.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Learning that the two men in the car with him had been the ones who had taken Peter had taken Neal momentarily off guard. He had at first been stunned and then angry; the memory of Elizabeth sobbing in his arms on the street in Paris coming vividly to his mind. But he had forced himself to take a breath; to distance his mind from that memory. It was time for a practical application of what he'd been working on for two years; not allowing his emotional response to outweigh good sense. He would not let emotions cause him to rush into hasty actions. The meeting was still hours away; there was time to think through the options.

Eduardo's unexpected disclosure had answered more than one question. It also settled the one that had just arisen in Neal's mind; who actually employed the men. He had assumed from the beginning that they worked Cordero and Eduardo had seemed to substantiate that belief during their initial conversation. As they had continued to talk, he had seemed forthcoming; Neal had credited it to his success in convincing the man he was no threat. That was one reason such a man would disclose details about his criminal activities with an outsider.

But there was another reason as well. That reason was he planned on killing the person at the end of the conversation. Neal hoped his skill at putting people at ease had to lead Eduardo to share and not the fact that the man intended to kill him once they reached the new location. When told to ignore the text, Neal had become concerned that he might have been mistaken about who employed the men; they could just as easily work for the Corvi family and have been sent to intercept him. That, at least, that had been removed from the list of possible complications the evening might present.

Neal hoped that his companion chalked up his lack of conversation during the next few minutes to nervousness about the upcoming meeting. He'd done a good job convincing Eduardo that he was inexperienced and anxious, and he had to admit, he hadn't had to feign apprehension when the location had been changed. That had been mildly alarming. But if the men had indeed saved him from the fate that had befallen the previous couriers, his concerns about the meeting had lessened considerably. Even the later meeting time would work to their advantage; Agent Elliot and his counterparts in Philadelphia would have time to set up at least some surveillance by the time the other's arrived. With the threat of Corvi interference removed, and Agents on site to gather intel, the meeting should be as successful as the one at the warehouse.

He only had one real problem with it; when it was over, the men who kidnapped Peter would be flying off to Bogota. It had been the primary precept that the operation was for information gathering only; any arrests would expose Nathan Clay as a mole. But even if he was willing to forego that, the men hadn't actually confessed to the crime. Peter had never seen his attackers and his statement had said as much. There were no witnesses and no physical evidence to tie them to the crime. With 56.5 million visitors a year, the fact that they had been in New York at the time of the kidnapping meant nothing. In the hands of a high caliber attorney, an extraction could have referred to a dental procedure.

Peter had said he'd be listening; his blood pressure had probably shot through the roof when Eduardo made reference to his previous visit to New York. To say Peter was personally invested in the Cordero case was an understatement; he was obsessed and had been ever since his return. It was a matter of pride. It was a good thing Peter was in New York, and his kidnappers were in Philadelphia, but even so, Neal guessed that the other Agents had their hands full trying to keep him contained.

He used the time to think; to reassess the situation. He'd love to figure out a way to give Peter what he wanted most, without blowing the operation or signing his own death warrant. How to do that without revealing his duplicity was quite a challenge. He had died once already and wasn't keen on doing it again. So far, other than a couple of moments of uncertainty, the afternoon had been predictable. He'd told Peter it was a simple job, and it had been just that. Simple and dull. But the new information added an element he hadn't foreseen. Suddenly, much more seemed at stake.

"It's 6:45," he said after several minutes of silence. "So if I'd gone to the meeting place I was told to go to, I'd be dead right now?"

"Probably not yet. They did not die quickly, Señor Clay," Eduardo corrected solemnly. "I thought you knew what happened to them."

"I knew they were killed, but I wasn't given any details." He held up his hand when Eduardo started to speak, "and I don't want any. I agreed to do this because the pay was too good to pass up and it was a one-time thing."

"The pay is so good because no one else would take the job," He explained in amusement. "Let's just say the killings sent a clear message; anyone coming into their territory would pay a very high price."

"The others," Neal began, "Did they get a text like me or were they verbally told where the meeting was supposed to take place?

"They were also sent a text," Eduardo told him. "That has been the standard way the meets are set. But when they arrived, they were brutalized and killed. The first time, it was believed to have just been bad timing. These things happen." Brutalized and killed. The man spoke as if it was only a minor inconvenience. It was, after all, a violent business. "But when it happened a second time, it was clear there was a real problem."

"How could anyone know when and where the meetings were even being held?" Neal questioned.

"That is the problem we were sent to solve, Señor Clay," Eduardo explained. "It became clear that someone high in our organization was providing the meeting information to the Corvi family; our enemies. We were called to find out who that person was."

That cleared up exactly _what_ problem the four-man team had been sent to solve; to find someone in the organization who had changed allegiance.

"And have you?"

"We will have that information very soon," he said. "We have used a variety of methods to narrow down our search, and this delivery has been orchestrated to provide the last piece of information."

"So this has been part of a trap to catch the traitor?" Neal wasn't sure he understood how their plan was supposed to work.

"To catch the men who can _identify_ the traitor," Eduardo clarified. " Matías and I were to bring you here safely; other members of our team are to deal with those who were sent to intercept you. You see, those men set a trap but fell into it themselves; we will have the name of the person responsible soon. It usually does not take long once the questioning process has begun."

Neal's primary purpose for conversation was to gather information. However, like the details of how the other couriers had met their end, Neal didn't want to know details about the questioning process Eduardo had referred to. Neal hoped everything was coming across loud and clear to Agent Elliot and those monitoring the transmissions. From the sound of it, this meeting wasn't the only thing on the agenda for the evening. "What happens when you get the name you are looking for?"

"We send a message of our own."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Neal pulled up at the Lucian Gallery about twenty minutes later. He knew the area and the gallery; he had used the space himself the week before. Cordero had procured it for him to handle some very specific, and lucrative, business transactions.

After he had pulled up to the curb, the ever silent Matías exited the car. Eduardo indicated that they were to wait until he made sure the building was secure. As they had entered the block, Neal had looked for a sign of a surveillance team. Agent Elliot would probably arrive about the same time he did, but depending upon their pre-set locations, the Philadelphia team may have made it here before their arrival. The choice of location was fortunate. In the art district, there were several restaurants in the general area; vehicles of patrons lined the streets. One van, with a florist shop logo on the side, caught his eye. He wondered how many agents were cramped inside it and smiled at the memory. He missed a lot of things about working with Peter Burke and the FBI, but the time in the van was not one of them.

After a few moments, Mathas exited the building and joined them again at the car, indicating to Eduardo that the building was clear. He instructed Neal to open the trunk and then removed the bag with the emblazoned logo for the Museum of Fine Art. Neal followed Eduardo into the building, and Matías followed behind them. Once they had made their way into the Gallery lobby, the heavy glass doors closing behind them, Matías handed the bag to Eduardo and approached Neal. The man had a good four inches and fifty pounds on him, and if he was intent to do harm there was little Neal could do to defend himself. He felt his heart rate increase as the man loomed near.

"I apologize." The accent was as heavy as Eduardo's, and there was no hint of regret in his voice in spite of his choice of words. "I must ask that you give me the phone you were given, as well as any other you might have."

"This is the only one I have," Neal knew his relief was evident in his tone. Handing over the phone was not near as bad as what he had been able to imagine in mere seconds. Just the brief conversation with Agent Elliot had given him some indication of what kind of men he was dealing with and what they were capable of.

"I must also check for weapons. Hold out your arms, please." Deadly, no doubt, but polite none the less.

Neal complied, eyebrows raised, but his look did not prompt the man to provide enlightenment. Eduardo had seemed more than willing to engage in conversation, but Matías was all business. He was frisked quickly and efficiently, then given an additional request.

"I also need to see the contents of your pockets." Neal obediently handed over the contents of his pockets. Car keys and his wallet was all he had carried; after a quick examination, they were both handed back to him. His task finished, Matías stepped back and addressed him again.

"We are expecting a call and will be joined by others within the hour; perhaps you could take the next few moment to view the exhibit in Gallery A while we tend to our business." It wasn't a question; unlike Eduardo, Matías had no intentions of discussing business in front of him. "Please stay within our line of sight, Señor Clay, I do not wish to come looking for you."

Nor did Neal want the man to come looking for him. During the drive, Eduardo had seemed to hold the role of the one in charge. Now, however, Neal doubted that had ever been the case. He had simply been the vocal one.

"I would love to look at the exhibit." His lie was convincing. The fact was he'd already seen it and it wasn't impressive the first time. He stepped into the gallery, allowing the heavy glass doors to close quietly behind him. Matías wanted privacy, but that worked both ways. With his back to the men, Neal proceeded to cross the space to the artwork on the opposite wall.

Raising his hand to run his hand through his hair, he spoke quietly.

"Everything's fine, just waiting on the guests to arrive," He said, "I guess you know these are the guys who kidnapped Agent Burke." He studied the art in front him a moment, then turned to move to the right. He used the opportunity to glance through the glass partition. Eduardo and, Matías still involved in their own conversation, weren't even looking in his direction. Again he turned his back to the men, pretending to study yet another painting.

"I'd hoped to get Eduardo to say more once we got here, but that's not likely to happen. But you might can pull them in for something else; there's more going on than just this exchange. Put someone on them after they leave here; I think they plan to kill whoever they determine has betrayed the organization before they leave tonight. If you can catch them in the act, you'll have them for attempted murder."

"Señor Clay," Eduardo's voice caught him by surprise, causing him to jump in spite of himself. He turned; the door was still closing. Eduardo had only just stepped into the gallery. Neal relaxed; the man hadn't heard his discourse. "Please, would you join us? El Rey has arrived; he says he has heard a great deal about you and has been looking forward to meeting you in person."

El Rey had arrived? El Rey meant The King and Eduardo certainly spoke the name with the respect due to a superior. There was also a hint of curiosity in the man's voice. Neal had portrayed himself as someone of no real importance; El Rey's having heard of him had probably challenged that perception.

"Of course," Neal said politely, "I'd be honored to meet," he paused, " _El Rey_?" He knew what the term meant but hoped Eduardo would stay true to form and elaborate. Any information as to who the man was and what position he held would be helpful. This operation might lead to more than the supply lines of the Cordero organization. If his name was any indication, El Rey was at the top of the food chain.

"Yes, he has driven down from New York for tonight's events." Eduardo didn't disappoint. "He bought us here to find the source of the problem, and now that we have, he wants to be here to resolve it personally."

"He brought you here?" Did that mean he was the one who had brought them here before; the one who had ordered Peter's kidnapping?

"He brought you here as well, Señor Clay, " Eduardo informed him. "He is called El Rey for a very good reason, here in the States, he is the King."

"I'm sorry to say I've never heard of him," Neal said as Eduardo pulled open the glass doorway. "So how has he heard of me?"

"Apparently Alberto Cordero is very fond of you, Señor Clay."


	13. Chapter 13

_I've a question to ask; are long, less frequent chapters preferred over shorter, more often ones? Just curious as to the general feeling out there. This chapter is very long and was hard to write; hope everyone likes it well enough. Thanks to all who are reading my story._

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Eduardo held open the door for Neal, and both men returned to the gallery lobby. Matías was not present, but three other men were. Even without introductions, Neal was instantly aware which of the men was El Rey. In spite of his nickname, he did not appear to be South American. In his mid-to-late fifties, he was slight of build and took pride in his appearance. Not only did he appear to be in excellent physical condition, but he was impeccably dressed and carried himself with an air of confidence that was unmistakable. Even though he did not appear as physically intimidating as did the other men, there was something about him that indicated he was the most dangerous man in the room. His eyes were cold and when he spoke his voice was quiet; He was accustomed to being heard.

"Mr. Clay," He stepped forward and extended a hand. "I'm glad to put a face to the name. I am called El Rey," The man's shrug was slight. "It's a term of respect."

"El Rey," Neal was careful to reciprocate the firmness of the shake. It had benefited him to be seen as an inferior by Eduardo; it did not seem wise to choose that course with this man. He kept both his tone and his smile reserved. "I see my reputation precedes me. I'm pleased to meet you as well." He glanced in question at the two new faces in case more introductions were coming; they were not. El Rey held his gaze several seconds with what appeared to be a look of mild curiosity before he returned Neal's token smile with one of his own.

"Please," El Rey motioned towards the gallery Neal had just exited, "We have some time before the others arrive. I'd would love your thoughts on the current exhibit. I haven't had an opportunity to view it; I don't get to Philadelphia very often." He looked at the men beside him. "Eduardo, you join us. I understand you to have an interest in art as well."

"Of course," Eduardo replied to what was clearly an order, "I would be very pleased to join you."

It was possible that El Rey had some interest in art, but Neal had spent two hours with Eduardo and hadn't picked up any indication that he had an interest in anything but his current assignment. Whatever the purpose of the walkthrough might be, Neal was certain it had nothing to do with the art on display in the gallery. El Rey wanted a personal assessment of Nathan Clay; he wasn't going to rely on the impressions of others. It was also possible he had heard conflicting opinions and wanted to form his own. But why it mattered at this late date in their arrangement was unclear. His business with the Cordero organization was all but wrapped up.

El Rey couldn't have risen to the position he held without the ability to manipulate and to do that one had to be able to read people. It was something Neal was well acquainted with. For that reason, he recognized what El Rey was doing. One way to lure a person into dropping pretense was to put them in a situation where they were at ease and confident. It was a variation of the tactic he had taken with Eduardo. Knowing the underlying purpose of the tour, Neal knew what he had to do.

"I would be glad to take you for a tour," He flashed a smile to illustrate his pleasure at the request and pushed open the door to the gallery. He stood there, waiting for both men to enter, stepping easily into the role of tour guide. After they had entered, he began his discourse. "It is a unique collection-" he had to fabricate some passion to convince El Rey he was seeing the real Nathan Clay "-assembled because of the common use of bold color and brush strokes and not by artist, theme or subject matter."

As a gallery owner, Nathan Clay was a good salesperson. He was particular about what art he chose to sell in his gallery, so his pitch came easily. There was the occasion when he was offered an exorbitant fee to move a painting that didn't appeal to him in the least. When that situation occurred, he became an _exceptional_ salesperson. The trick was to find something in the piece that inspired interest. Sometimes it was in the work itself, sometimes the medium or the story behind the chosen subject. Other times it was simply the artist that made the piece saleable. There was always something he could hang his hat on, so to speak.

The designer of the Lucian Gallery Exhibit had cited the Fauves Exhibit at the Salon d'Automne as a source of inspiration for the premise of the collection. Even though not one piece of the exhibit came close to a Matisse, it, at least, gave him an interesting topic from which to launch. After all, when the Fauves had appeared on the art scene, they had been less than well received.

Nathan Clay had been exclusively working in the Art world for two years, and it only took moments to fall into the familiar routine. He loved art and during the past years had been able to immerse himself completely in it. A quarter of the way around the exhibit he felt he had some grasp what the designer had in mind with the chosen pieces. The interaction was a vital part of any exhibition tour, and he usually had no problem facilitating discussion. He took every opportunity to engage his audience, but with very limited success. Eduardo tried to engage, likely because he felt that was the role El Rey had brought him along to play. He even asked a couple of surprisingly insightful questions. But El Rey was clearly using the opportunity to study the guide and not the art; a less confident person would have found the attention distracting. Finally, the tour had come to an end.

"Interpretation is how we uncover what we think artwork, or a collection of artwork, might mean," Neal explained, "It's important to understand that even if we uncover the creator's intentions, art exists to provoke thought and reflection. Because of that, one single work can mean something different to each person who views it." The three of them were now standing near the entrance. Matías had returned and had joined the two still unnamed men in the lobby. They were seated around what had been the welcome center. Neal finished his script. "Art is uniquely created, and likewise, uniquely understood by the viewer; it is a very personal experience."

"That was very enlightening, Mr. Clay." It was the first time the man had spoken during the entire outing. "Thank you for taking the time to walk through the exhibit with us." El Rey reached out and opened the door, allowing the two men to enter the lobby before him. Once inside, he addressed the room's other occupants. "Mr. Clay and I are going to step into the office to continue our discussion." Neal found that humorous since there was no discussion to continue. He expected one was coming, but he doubted it would be about art. "I expect everything is in place for when our guests arrive?"

"Yes," The man who answered his question was one of the new arrivals. "Everything is ready." He glanced at his watch. "They should be here in about twenty minutes."

Neal looked at his own watch in surprise: what he had thought was a short tour had taken almost an hour.

"Excellent," El Rey motioned to Neal to follow him and the crossed the lobby and entered the office area. They didn't go through into the main office but stopped in what appeared to be a reception area.

El Rey did not close the door, but indicating one chair for Neal, El Rey took a seat in the other. His eyes were fixed on Neal's intently. "Alberto thinks you have great potential in this business. Eduardo, on the other hand, has a very different impression of you."

Just as he had thought; conflicting reports. "I'm like good art; I can be interpreted differently by different people." Neal held El Rey's gaze in a way he doubted many dared. "I'm sure you have come up with your own opinion."

"I have, and I am inclined to agree with Matías; he calls you _El Embaucador."_

These men and their nicknames. "The Trickster?" Neal's tone was amused.

"I believe you present yourself to others in the way you determine will best serve your purpose." El Rey's tone held no judgment. "Alberto, Matias and I can spot talent and you clearly have it. Eduardo said you were thinking about relocating. Is that true or just the part you were playing?"

Neal now believed the conversation was a prelude to yet another job offer. He could almost imagine Peter rolling his eyes in Agent Singleton's office.

"I'm considering it," He glanced around the office. "In fact, I looked at this very space as a possible location for a new gallery."

"If you did relocate," El Rey continued, "your skills could prove very useful in certain aspects of our business. It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"I like to be useful," Neal replied with a smile. "It improves my bank account as well as my life expectancy."

"That it does, Mr. Clay," El Rey agreed. "I wish everyone possessed such wisdom."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The conversation ended at the sound of several voices: Neal recognized the irate tones before he could make out the words. The anticipated guest had arrived and were clearly not happy. El Rey stood, and Neal followed suit.

"We will continue this discussion later, Mr. Clay," His tone was not irate but deadly serious. "I now have some unpleasant business to attend to."

After the initial change of venue, Neal had expected the drop to be as uneventful as the first one. However, upon the arrival of El Rey, he knew there was more on the agenda than a simple delivery. He thought it could be a move to reassure his people that he had things in hand. Moral was important in the workforce, regardless of what kind of work they specialized in. His choice of the words _unpleasant business_ , however, called the likelihood of that into question.

Once the newcomers had entered the gallery lobby, their words became distinguishable. El Rey did not exit the room immediately; he let the men continue in their angry remarks. It was clear they did not know he was on the premises or Neal was sure their insolent attitudes would have been checked at the door.

"I don't know what good a meeting is going to do," Came an angry voice. "We've got to do more than talk about this or we might as well pack up and leave."

"More than talking will be done; I assure you." Neal guessed that was the voice of one of the men who had arrived with El Rey. His accent closely matched his other team members. The irate voice, like El Rey's, held no accent.

"This is the third damn time!" Said another man. "We can't do business this way. We lose more distributors, and territory, every time we miss a delivery. People are starting to jump ship, and I can't say I blame them."

El Rey didn't openly react to the men's comments. However there was a slight tightening of his jaw as he listened to the exchange outside the office's open door. The term giving enough rope to hang oneself came to Neal's mind. He actually felt some sympathy for the men in the next room.

"There are some questioning the leadership," A third man joined in. "First Alejandro Diaz gets nabbed on counterfeiting charges-a stupid move-derailing the entire East Coast operations. El Rey thinks he can solve the problem by kidnapping a Federal agent, which only alerts them to Diaz's connection to us and puts us under more scrutiny. Then Cordero gets himself arrested in Venezuela over something as stupid as stolen art." Clearly he was one of those questioning leadership. El Rey stood silent and still, but the comment had elicited another subtle response; Neal saw a muscle twitch in his jaw.

Neal concentrated on controlling his own response to the man's words. If surveillance had picked it up-and there was no reason to believe they hadn't-El Rey had just been identified as the person who ordered Peter's kidnapping. Even more promising, the comment had been made in front of at least seven witnesses; not just him. It removed a pressure that he hadn't realized he felt. Any one of the men in the other room could flip on El Rey once they were in custody.

"There has been poor decision-making at every level," Someone agreed. "and it's undermining everything we've established. We have got to get things under control, or this problem is going to spread. If Corvi is successful in shutting us down here, other will see the weakness and move to exploit it. Either El Rey is in charge, or he's not; and its looking like not."

The noose finally tightened, El Rey took that statement as his cue. Neal had no doubt that soon it would be very clear that he was, in fact, very much in charge. He quickly stepped past Neal and through the doorway. Neal exited behind him, joining the group in the lobby.

El Rey hadn't spoken, but the stricken looks on the faces of the newcomers confirmed Neal's suspicion that they had been unaware of El Rey's presence.

The tone of voice automatically changed from disdain to respect.

"I meant no disrespect, sir," rushed the man who had just spoken, "I was just speaking to my concern about the perception among some of our distributors."

"The perception regarding those in leadership roles?" El Rey's voice was quiet but the tension was palpable. "I admit, I too have some concerns. I feel that changes are needed and I am here to make them. Diego?"

Diego joined the group, as did Eduardo, Matías, and the still unnamed man. The stance they took seemed like that of predators surrounding prey. Diego was holding a small pasteboard box with a fitted top and at a slight nod from El Rey, he stepped forward and presented it to one of the men.

"I don't understand." Neal recognized the voice of the first man that had spoken; the man who had questioned the benefit of the meeting. With a look of confusion, he took the pro-offered box.

Five sets of eyes drilled into the man; four looked on with curiosity. The man swallowed nervously. Then, balancing the box on the palm of one hand, he gently raised the lid.

"What the _hell_?" His voice rose in panic and the box fell from his hand, spilling its contents on the floor. Neal wasn't the only one to instantly jump back at the sight of several severed hands. He couldn't stand the sight of blood but for what seemed like forever, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the bloody mess on the floor. When he finally looked up, he saw looks of shock and horror on the faces of the three men beside him. No doubt, it was mirrored on his own. The other occupants of the room seemed both unsurprised and unaffected by the carnage.

"I understand it might be hard to recognize without its owner attached, Mr. Mendez," El Rey said calmly, "but one of those belonged to Donovan Marino." He paused, eyes narrowing as he studied the man closely. "Are you familiar with the name?"

"El Rey," That Mendez was able to find his voice was impressive "I don't know what's going on here or what you..."

"Diego was waiting for Corvi's men when they came to intercept the shipment," El Rey explained. "Three were killed during the ensuing confrontation. However, two men were captured alive. They can no longer be described as such. With the proper motivation," his eyes fell to the dismembered hands, "They gave up their source of information, not only this time but the two previous times as well."

"I don't know anything about what Corvi's' men do," Mendez protested, "and I don't know this Marino person. Someone," he lowered his voice and steadied his gaze on El Rey, "has made a big mistake."

"Someone _has_ made a big mistake," El Rey countered. " _You._ Diego cut the hands off of the men who were sent to steal from us; we will cut off the head of the one who sent them," He paused, a small smile turning the corners of his mouth, "After we shoot him through the heart, of course. There is less mess that way."

Any sense of bravado Mendez had tried to capture drained from him, along with any color left on his face. There was silence in the room as the words sunk in; even the men who had moments before agreed with Mendez's sentiments were now looking at him with suspicion.

Mendez was the traitor Eduardo and his team had been sent to find. That the threat was imminent became clear when Deigo and Matías produced their weapons. Neal knew that the man deemed to be the traitor was scheduled to meet a bad end, but he hadn't expected it to be here, or now. He thought it would be later, after this meeting, and Agent Elliot would be there to make sure the murder didn't actually happen.

"Please," Mendez stepped back slightly, holding his hands up in defense. "I didn't send anyone; I just gave the men the locations." His eyes were desperate as he looked from face to face for assistance, for understanding. "I didn't have a choice; Men came to my house. They threatened to kill my family if I didn't help them."

El Rey showed no sympathy nor did Eduardo or his cohorts. Even Mendez's companions seemed to have none, or if they did, not enough to motivate them to intervene or speak up on his behalf. Neal guessed it was less lack of sympathy and more survival instinct that were in play. In fact, over the course of the exchange, they had managed to shrink away, putting as much space between him and themselves as possible.

"Betrayal cannot be tolerated; no matter what the reason for it." El Rey said quietly.

"Look," Neal spoke up, stepping near the condemned man, "I think we have a misunderstanding. I know you said you had unpleasant business to attend to, but I didn't sign on for this. Can't you take the unpleasantness somewhere else?"

There, he had done it; he had used the phrase that should send reinforcements. It might truncate the supply train here in Philadelphia, but it would net some very big fish; the king of the Cordero organization. With drug possession charges hanging over them, surely one of the men would be willing to give up the kidnappers for a lesser charge.

But even more than all of that, it would save Mendez from being shot in front of him. That was the reason he had made the decision; to save the man's life.

"I realize you prefer the more tidy aspects of the business, Mr. Clay, but let this be a lesson," El Rey replied. "In our organization, this is the penalty for betrayal."

With his statement finished, El Rey gave a brief nod; the go-ahead for murder. Neal saw Deigo's eye narrow slightly, and in that instant, he lunged sideways to push Mendez to the floor.

The shout of "Federal Agents! Don't move!" occurred almost instantaneously with the sound of gunshots. Neal felt a hard blow, knocking the air from his lungs as both he and Mendez tumbled to the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

_"To thine own self be true." ~Shakespeare_

 _I had better go ahead and make my usual disclaimer: If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. It's what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. Thanks for reading and reviewing, favoriting and following. Also, thanks for all the feedback about chapter length and posting frequency._

 **Chapter Fourteen**

Look," Neal's voice sounded strained as it came through the transmitter, "I think we have a misunderstanding. I know you said you had unpleasant business to attend to, but I didn't sign on for this. Can't you take the unpleasantness somewhere else?"

Agent Elliot wasn't clear exactly what had been going on during the past few moments, but the tension level in the gallery had shot through the roof. It had also traveled inexplicably through the radio waves to the van across the street as well as to the Organized Crime Division back in New York. He knew the stress had traveled that far because Agent Burke had already broken his silence, telling him very clearly that he needed to move. That had happened when the man called El Rey discussed both beheading and shooting someone through the heart. Less than a minute after Burke's outburst, Clay had uttered the signal himself.

 _"I think we have a misunderstanding."_

"Everyone go!" Elliott said into the radio, sending teams in from both directions. "Remember, we have a friendly inside."

"I realize you prefer the more tidy aspects of the business, Mr. Clay, but let this be a lesson; in our organization, this is the penalty for betrayal." El Rey had spoken mere seconds before Elliot heard the teams enter the gallery.

With their shouts came gunfire. It only lasts seconds; he estimated five shots in rapid succession, but the sound of Clay's grunt of pain told him all he needed to know. He sprang from the back of the van and sprinted towards the gallery.

The sounds coming through his earpiece from the field agents were chaotic; there were orders, shouts, scuffling and general chaos. He was down the block and at the entrance in seconds, joining the continuing throng of agents still streaming into the building.

Once inside the lobby, he took in the scene quickly and looked for Clay. His saw his form on he floor across the room. At first, he was encouraged by movement but then realized it was a man pinned beneath Clay's still body trying to free himself. Two officers were there; one was checking Clay's prone figure and the other, having freed the pinned man, helped him up. As the man got to his feet, Elliot could see blood on his shirt and on his arm as well. He looked shaken, but seemed uninjured; the blood staining his shirt was not his own.

"Get medical in here now," Agent Elliott said into his radio, holstered his weapon and moved quickly towards Clay. Nearby, DEA agents were checking what appeared to be two additional causalities. As Elliot arrived, the man with the bloody shirt was being cuffed, but his eyes were on Clay.

"Is he dead?" He asked. "He pushed me out of the way," He reported in astonishment. "He saved my life, and I've never even _met_ him before. Who _does_ that?" Elliot could argue that the type of people the man associated with weren't exactly the best humanity had to offer, but the truth was that even he had never seen such a gesture.

"He's alive," The officer beside Clay replied as Elliot knelt down as well. The injured man's eyes were closed, his chest covered with blood.

"Medical's on the way." Elliot felt his own blood drain from his face. "How bad?"

"I don't know; he's losing a lot of blood," He shifted Clay slightly, checking for an exit wound. "Bullet's still in there." The movement elicited a groan from Clay and his eyes opened. His expression was anxious, he seemed confused and disoriented.

He had been hit by a single round about three inches below his right collar bone. Shirt front soaked, a small pool of blood was already assembling beneath him. His breathing was labored, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face. He glanced first at the officer, and then his gaze found Elliot. There was a moment's delay, brows furrowed, before a look of recognition replaced the confused look on the pale face. The usual bright eyes were dull. Elliot smoothed his dark hair back from his forehead; his skin felt cold and clammy. Afraid of the onset of shock, Elliot pulled off his jacket and spread it over Clay; the other officer did the same. Elliot looked up at his concerned face. "Go outside and escort them in here the minute they arrive." With a nod and parting glance at Clay, the officer did as he was asked.

"Damn it, Clay," Elliot admonished, trying to keep the fear he felt from transferring to his voice, "What the hell were you thinking?" Elliot was surprised when a faint smile crossed the young man's face.

His voice was just a whisper. "You sound like Peter."

Elliot's phone had already vibrated twice; he knew without looking it was Agent Burke wanting an update. There was going to be hell to pay. Burke's instructions to him had been very clear. _Keep him safe._ And he had failed.

"Do I?" Elliott asked, moving the jacket down to locate the wound. "I thought you said you were good at ducking and covering," he joked, trying to insert levity into his tone, "What possessed you to jump in front of a bullet?" A small groan escaped Clay's lips as Elliot pulled the jacket back up, and placed his hands over the wound. "I've got to put pressure on this, and it's going to hurt." Warning given, he pressed down. The act brought a sharp intake of breath from the man, and his eyes clenched in pain. Elliott knew it hurt, but it had to be done.

After just a moment, Clay's eyes opened quickly, almost as if in a panic. His hand reached up, grasping Elliot's arm anxiously. "They kidnapped Peter," he said in a rush. Elliot wasn't sure if Clay was becoming delirious, somehow revisiting the event or if he'd just remembered what he had learned about the identity of those responsible. His next words supplied the answer. "Did you hear everything, did it come through?" He's cloudy eyes searched Elliot's in desperation. "It was them; they did it."

"Yes, we heard it all," Elliot assured him, still applying pressure to the wound, "Let us worry about all that, okay? You need to relax. Help will be here in a minute," He paused as Clay's hand released its grip and slipped back to its place by his side. He seemed about to lose consciousness; the blue eyes losing focus.

"Burke's going to be pissed that I let you get hurt," Elliot said. An attempt to keep the wounded man engaged, it was also a true statement. If he'd sent the team in when Burke had told him, Clay likely wouldn't have been hurt. What made it worse was that they could have moved in without compromising his cover. They had had an in ever since the last three men had arrived at the Gallery. One of them, Edwin Thomas, was a person of interest to the Philadelphia Task Force. Already under surveillance, there was enough to justify an entry; but Elliot had decided to stick with the plan and only move in if Clay gave the signal.

"Wasn't… your fault," Clay said weakly. "He'll understand…he knows… how I am."

"So, you pulled this crap when you worked with him?" Elliot wondered if the pressure he was exerting on Clay's chest was the reason for his growing difficulty breathing; the reason his lips were beginning to have a bluish tint. Should he let up? He glanced towards the door. Where were the medics?

"Much worse…crap…than this." Clay's voice was faint; Elliot could feel him trembling beneath his hands. "They were…going to kill him," his eyes closed, the rest of his words were mumbled and almost inaudible. "I had… to do ….something."

Elliott knew that Nathan Clay was a loyal friend and more than willing to put himself in harm's way for that cause, but to put himself in the path of a bullet meant for a stranger was something else altogether. What had Mendez asked, _Who does that?_ For someone he had initially pegged as an opportunist, Elliot now saw the man in a new light.

"I understand, Nathan. Stay with me, okay? Open your eyes." When there was no response, Elliot felt a jolt of panic himself. He tried again, raising his voice slightly. "Neal," he called, " _Open your eyes_."

The eyes opened expectantly and after a moment of confusion, his gaze fell on Elliot's face. There was disappointment in the blue eyes, and Elliot felt a pang of guilt at inadvertently misleading the man. He had only heard one person call Nathan Clay _Neal_.

"I thought…Peter was here," he whispered despondently. Not only thought, but hoped, Elliot realized.

Elliot had heard Agent Burke call him Neal after the meeting Clay had arranged at the Midtown Gallery. Whatever topic the two of them had been engaged in had been, it was serious enough that Agent Burke had slipped on the name. Given what he'd already said about their relationship, a quick look at Burke's FBI file turned up the name _Neal Caffrey_. The photo Elliot pulled for the deceased, former criminal turned CI for the White Collar Division, confirmed it. Nathan Clay was, in fact, Neal Caffrey and the history between the two men spanned more than a decade. Starting as prey and predator, it had then become handler and criminal informant. That was not the end of the evolution, however. Burke had said they were friends, but the look in Clay's eyes said they were even more than that; they were family.

"I told...him," Clay breathed, "not to come...but I really wish...he was here." The words, and the expression that accompanied them, were piteous.

"He'll be here," Elliot reassured him, having no doubt Agent Burke was already on his way. His phone had now vibrated four times. Elliot felt relief sweep over him as he saw the officer entering, pointed the medics in Clay's direction. "He'll see you at the hospital. Help is here-they'll take care of you." He released his pressure on the wound and prepared to move aside so the men could work, but again Clay gripped his arm weakly.

"Tell Peter….to remember...what we...talked about." The eyes that met his were pleading. "Tell him… it was my choice… to come back….my choice….. to do this." Even though Elliot was no longer pressing on his chest, Clay was still struggling, pausing between words to gasp for breath. The blueness of his lips was growing more noticeable. "Tell him… I'm sorry."

It sounded too much like a farewell message to suit Elliot. "Tell him all that yourself," He responded, "You're going to be fine."

"Not so sure… " Clay whispered, eye's closing in pain, "I feel….like someone…is stabbing me…in the chest."

"What do we have?" The medics had made their way to them with a gurney and quickly unloaded the equipment onto the floor beside their patient.

"Gunshot wound," Elliott supplied, moving out of the way. "He's lost a lot of blood and is having a hard time breathing."

"What's his name?" The man asked.

Elliot only hesitated a moment. The man had his reasons for letting Neal Caffrey die. "Nathan Clay."

"Mr. Clay," the Medic's voice was firm. He quickly removed the jackets covering his patient and cut through the front of Clay's shirt to expose the wound. "Are you still with us?"

"Yeah," Clay mumbled, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes still closed, "still here…"

"Good," the medic responded. His partner handed him a hemostatic dressing, and after a minimal prep of the site, it was placed over the wound. "We're going to get you stabilized and transport you to Mercy General." Weak eyes opened. "Are you in any pain?"

"My chest…and back," Clay replied, nostrils flaring, "hurts…to breath." his eyes again closed. Just breathing seemed to take all of his energy.

"He's cyanotic," the other medic commented, "Check his O2 levels and start him on oxygen." He placed a stethoscope on Clay's chest area, listening intently. When he was finished, he spoke to his partner with a new sense of urgency. "I'm getting very little from his right lung; I think we're dealing with a pneumothorax."

"85%." Elliot wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew by the low tone it wasn't good. An oxygen mask was placed on Clay's fact; it seemed to somewhat ease his labored breathing.

Next the medic slipped a blood pressure cuff on his arm. He placed the stethoscope in his ears, squeezed the pump rapidly, stopped, and let the air out slowly.

"Ninety over fifty-four," he said to his partner, "Heart rate is weak and rapid; let's get him transported. We'll get fluids started on the way." The two men positioned themselves and transferred Clay from the floor onto the gurney. The movement caused a groan of pain to escape his lips, but his eyes remained closed. They quickly covered him with a blanket, and strapped him into place.

"I'll have to make a report. What's his condition?" Elliot inquired.

The medic hesitated only a moment. "Serious," he supplied, placing the equipment on the gurney at Clay's feet. "His symptoms and the decreased lung sounds indicate the bullet damaged his right lung. We're not sure what else. They will know more once they run tests and send him to x-ray."

"Mercy General? "Agent Elliott clarified.

"Yes, trauma unit," the Medic confirmed. "We'll need a medical history; Do you know if anything is on file?"

Agent Elliot doubted there was. "I don't know," He admitted, "But I'll have Agent Peter Burke from the New York office call the hospital; he'll know his medical history."

Speaking of the devil, his phone vibrated again. He pulled it from his pocket, knowing who it was before he answered.

"Agent Elliot."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Came Burke's angry voice. "You should have sent everyone in when I told you. Is Neal, _dammit_ , I mean Nathan alright?"

"Are you still in Agent Singleton's office?" Elliot doubted it, but if he was, he would have heard the last transmissions via Clay's watch.

"No," he replied, "After I heard gunfire, I got on the way to Philadelphia. I know he was hit," his voice was tense, "How bad is it?"

"Medics say it's serious but not critical." He didn't add what he was thinking, _Not critical yet_. "He took a round to the upper right chest; might have nicked his lung. They've got him stabilized and ready to transport." He had followed behind the medics as they moved Clay through the space and out of the building. They were now getting ready to load him into the ambulance. Clay was completely still; the oxygen mask covered his pale face.

"Is he conscious?" Burke asked. "Did you talk to him?"

"A little, but he's out of it now," Elliot replied regretfully, "They're taking him to Mercy General; you'll need to call and give them some medical background."

"I told you to keep him safe," Burke growled, reminding Elliot of something he had not forgotten in the least, "You shouldn't have waited so long."

 _So Long_ had only been about twenty seconds but those twenty seconds, Burke seemed convinced, could have made all the difference. Elliot felt the same way in retrospect, but that was hardly a fair way to judge his decision. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

"The plan we all agreed to was that we would move when he gave the word; and when _he_ did, _we_ did." Elliott defended, the criticism touching his already frayed nerves. "Do you know what happened in there?" If Burke had left after the shots were fired he wouldn't have heard Mendez's words. "Clay didn't duck and cover; he jumped in front of a bullet. We had no way to anticipate he'd do something like that."

Elliott heard a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "I know that was the plan. It's not your fault; he does stuff like this. Tell him I'll be there as soon as I can."

 _He does stuff like this_. And Clay words? _He knows how I am._

"I'll tell them to let him know," Elliot replied. After ten years, the men knew each other well. "I take it his actions today don't come as much of a surprise to you."

"No, they don't," Burke admitted. "In spite of all his efforts, some things I guess he can't change. Do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"Go with him; stay with him until I get there."

The place was crawling with uniforms as well as agents from various agencies; the suspects had been lead out. Eight Kilos of cocaine was quite the haul, and as the Agent in Charge, he needed to process the scene as well as get downtown to take statements. "You'll probably be there by the time he's out of surgery," Elliot told Burke, "His cover is intact, so I don't think he's in any danger, but I can send an officer if you're worried."

"No," Burke replied, "that's not what I'm worried about. Just make sure they tell him I am on my way and tell him I expect to find him when I get there." There was a sense of anxiety in Burke's voice that Elliott didn't understand.

"You expecting him to disappear or something?" Elliott half-joked.

"He sure as hell better not," Burke replied.


	15. Chapter 15

_Merry Christmas!_

 _I had planned to post this chapter earlier, but my word document became corrupted and was unrecoverable! Tears were shed; which of course, had to go unexplained to friends and family. I found an earlier version and spent a couple days reworking it, however the second effort never feels as good as the original. Even so, I hope you are pleased with it. Best of holiday wishes to you all! Review after you finish your festivities, but don't forget! Reviews make me very happy._

 **Chapter Fifteen**

Peter made the trip to Philadelphia in much less than the hour and a half his GPS had estimated. Of course, he ignored the posted speed limits which doubtless improved his time. The entire drive, he kept replaying the last time he had rushed to the hospital to see Neal, the news he had gotten when he arrived, and the following hours. They had been the hardest in his life; he didn't think he could handle going through such an experience again. He called the hospital as he had been instructed to do and gave the needed information. He had asked about Neal's condition, but at that point he hadn't yet arrived and information was limited. Still, at his insistence they told him the same thing Elliot had; his condition was listed as serious but not critical. He was experiencing respiratory distress and they would know more about the extent of his injuries once tests were run. None the less, Peter still had a heavy feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach that wouldn't be mitigated until he saw Neal for himself.

When he finally arrived at the hospital, he flashed his credentials and introduced himself. He didn't have to explain why he was there; they were expecting him and drew their own conclusions. He was a Federal Agent; they were very cooperative. The nurse on duty at the entrance picked up the phone, and only moments later, he was joined by the on call emergency room doctor.

"Agent Burke," he said, "Dr. Shaw had another surgery to perform, but I can give you an update on the patient. Mr. Clay is out of surgery and in recovery." He flipped open the chart in his hands and glanced at it briefly. "The bullet perforated the upper lobe of his right lung, causing a partial lung collapse. Dr. Shaw was able to repair the damage and the lung was reinflated; it seems to be functioning well. There was also some muscle damage, which was also repaired, and the bullet was removed. Everything was pretty straightforward; there were no complications. He should be out of recovery in a couple of hours." He snapped the folder holding the chart closed. "He'll be closely monitored in the ICU for the next twelve hours. You won't be able to question him until he's released from the unit and in a room. If all goes well, that will be late tomorrow sometime. I suggest you check back with his doctor then."

Peter had arrived speaking authoritatively and flashing his credentials; the staff had taken his inquiries as official business. He had never said he was there in his professional capacity but had let them draw their own conclusions. An FBI agent on the job was given access and information that others would have been denied. But now that assumption might result in no access to Neal until tomorrow afternoon, and that was in no way acceptable.

"I'm sorry," he began, "You have misunderstood my reason for being here; Nathan Clay is not my suspect. He's my friend." He paused. "I know he'd want me to be here."

"ICU has very strict regulations regarding visitors, Agent Burke. One family member is allowed back, and even then, only for brief periods of time."

"Look," Peter said, "He's here in the States visiting me. I'm the one who gave the hospital his medical information; my name is there on his file. I am his only friend on this side of the Atlantic; I _am_ his family."

The man looked as if he didn't have time to argue, especially with a determined FBI agent. "ICU is on the fourth floor," he said hastily. "There's a waiting room; I'll let them know you're there; someone will come out and let you know once Clay gets settled, and take you back to see him."

Peter thanked the doctor for the update, and the information, and then headed towards the elevator. The doctors words relieved him some, but he knew the feeling would not disperse until he saw Neal for himself. The image of his friend on the slab in the morgue kept intruding on his mind, and it would continue to do so until he could replace that image with another one.

His phone rang; he expected it to be Elizabeth making sure he'd made it to Philadelphia in once piece, but it was Elliott.

"You at the hospital yet?" he asked.

"Just got here ten minutes ago," Peter hit the up button on the elevator.

"How's Clay?"

"Surgery went fine; they repaired his lung. He's in recovery now," Peter informed. "They'll be moving him into ICU in a little while. I'm hoping they will let me in to see him then. I'm on my way up now." He appreciated Elliot's priorities, but he knew he had his own stuff going on. "How are things going there?"

"Amazingly well," Elliott was unable to hide the excitement in his voice. "I'm sorry your friend got hurt but by saving Mendez tonight, he handed us the Cordero organization on a silver platter." Peter listened absently as Elliot continued. "This guy's near death experience had him singing before we got him off the premises." He paused. "He's willing to give us everything he knows in exchange for protection. He is high up in the organization, Burke, he knows a lot. He knows about the kidnapping, too, and is willing to give us details about that as well."

Amazingly, he hadn't given the kidnappers another thought since he'd heard gunshots, and Neal's gasp of pain, over the wire. At that moment, snagging the kidnappers had been the last thing on his mind. He had only been focused on finding out how bad Neal was hurt, and getting to him.

"Between his information, and what we've tracked today" Elliot was saying, "We can take these guys down now. We won't have to wait."

With the cooperation of a high ranking member of the Cordero Organization, any subsequent legal actions against them would automatically be attributed to his duplicity; Nathan Clay, again, would walk away above suspicion for any part of the fallout.

"Unbelievable," Peter mused. "Leave it to-" his pause was slight "Nathan to turn a making a rash decision into a successful operation. Old Alberto will probably feel bad he got hurt and offer him a Villa or something."

"You said he was skilled," Elliott reminded him, "I'm not sure where skill ended and luck began, but either way, his actions over the past few hours may well bring down one of the biggest drug rings on the east coast."

"Don't tell him that," Peter said, "They'll be no living with him."

Elliott laughed at Peter's reply. "When you see him, tell him he did good, and I'm sorry if I was hard on him."

"When were _you_ hard on him?" Peter had arrived on the fourth floor. Wayfinding signs for the Waiting Room pointed him from the elevator to a hallway to the right.

"When he was lying there bleeding and I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing."

Peter chuckled. How many times had he asked Neal the very same question?

"What did he say?"

"He told me I sounded just like you."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It took a moment for it to register when a young man in scrubs entered the waiting room and called out "Clay?" He said it twice before Peter realized he was talking about Neal. Peter hadn't been sitting; he had been standing to gaze out the window on the city. He had sat enough lately. Plus, it had been a long day. If he was still for too long, he was afraid he'd pass out. He turned when the name that was being called finally registered as the one he was listening for.

"That's me." The nurse waited for Peter to join him, and then they proceeded down the wide hallway.

"Mr. Clay has just been brought up to his room." He handed Peter a card with the number J-417 on it. "Once you leave, you will need this code to get updates on his condition or to gain access to the unit." They reached the entrance to ICU. The nurse pressed the buzzer, identified himself, and the wide doors swung open. "We're giving him antibiotics as a precaution, and he'll be started on morphine once the effects of the anesthesia wear off. He'll be monitored here for twelve hours, and then, if there are no complications, he will be moved to a room. He's not as responsive as we'd like, but we aren't overly concerned. He was agitated when he was brought in. He had to be sedated before tests could be run; that sometimes slows the cognitive process after surgery."

"Agitated?" Elliot had told him that Neal had been unconscious by the time he had been transported. The thoughts of Neal waking and being anxious made him kick himself again for not being there. Even if he had been banned from participating in the operation, he could have been close by in case Neal needed him. He should have been.

"It's not uncommon," the nurse assured him. "He was the victim of violence and experiencing respiratory distress. Either one of those typically results in high anxiety." He paused as they reached an open door; the beige curtain was pulled closed, hiding the residing patient from sight. "It's good that you're here; a familiar face might help him feel less anxious as he regains consciousness. Also, don't be alarmed by his appearance; no one looks good in this setting. He really is doing very well."

With that said, the nurse stepped inside and pulled the curtain aside, giving Peter his first glimpse of Neal. Peter felt both pity and relief at the sight. Pity because Neal looked helpless lying there and relief because he _was_ lying there. He had been afraid that he would arrive at the hospital to find he had lost his friend again.

Neal looked much worse than he had only hours before, feet propped on the table at the Hicksville warehouse. Now he was pale, his dark hair messy and his right torso in a mass of bandages. An oxygen mask covered his face, and an IV was in his arm. Assorted wires attached him to several machines. But in spite of all of that, he still looked good to Peter.

His chest was rising and falling, machines were humming, the monitor recording his heart rate, blood pressure, respiration and blood oxygen levels. There was a continual beeping, indicating life; a far cry from a still, pale figure on a metal table in a cold, silent room.

The nurse stepped near and took a moment to check the different machines before speaking to his patient, "Mr. Clay," he said, "You have a visitor. Wake up and see who it is."

Neal seemed to shift a bit on his pillow, his brow even furrowed slightly, but his eyes remained closed. The nurse turned to Peter. "Maybe he will respond to a familiar voice. I will check in on you two in a little while." With that, he stepped past Peter and exited, pulling the privacy curtain closed behind him.

Peter moved closer to Neal and was suddenly at a loss. Who did he address, Neal or Nathan? After a slight hesitation, he spoke.

"Nathan, can you hear me?" The name sounded strange on his lips, but it was the name Neal insisted he use. When there was no response, he reached down, taking a still hand in his own. He squeezed gently and spoke again. " _Nathan_?"

Again, there was no response. He only waited a moment longer before trying again. "Neal," he said, leaning closer, "It's me, it's Peter. Open your eyes."

He felt a slight pressure on his hand before the blue eyes opened; a look of confusion, then alarm, crossing the pale face. The monitor above him indicated a rise in his heart rate, and he pulled his hand free from Peter's grasp. He immediately tried to grab the oxygen mask, but Peter intercepted his hand before it could fulfill its mission. Alarm turned to panic in the blue eyes; Neal was clearly distressed. The nurse had said he had been agitated when brought in. So much so that he'd had to be sedated. Peter didn't want a repeat of that, and now that he was here, there wasn't going to be one.

"Hey, Neal," he squeezed Neal's hand, gently bringing it back to rest at his side. Neal's effort to resist was weak and short lived. "Look at me." The blue eyes that found his were anxious. "It's Peter. You're _okay_ ," he assured him. "The surgery went fine, and everything is alright; Calm down."

"Peter?" His voice, barely audible, was full of uncertainty. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital, Neal," Peter replied. "You were shot."

" _Kellar_?" His question caught Peter off guard; Neal was clearly more out of it than he had thought. If his mind was playing that kind of trick on him, no wonder he was anxious. Was he wondering if his plan to stage his death had somehow been foiled? If he was still Neal Caffrey, tethered to the FBI by a tracking anklet?

"No, not Keller," Peter clarified. "You were shot saving a man named Mendez, don't you remember?"

"So I'm Nathan?" Doubtful eyes held his. "and I live in Paris?"

"Yes, you just came back to help on a case," Peter reassured him, "You live in Paris, and people call you Nathan." Peter's words apparently eased his troubled mind; a look of relief replaced the doubt on the pale face. He was quiet a moment before he spoke again.

"You don't." His quiet observation held no reproach, "You still call me Neal."

"Sorry about that," Peter replied, glad to see Neal's heart rate falling to a normal pace. "I'm working on it. Just give me some time."

"I don't mind, Peter," He confessed, gratitude in his eyes. "It's nice to have someone here who knows me; really knows me. _Easier_ , you know? It means I can relax."

"You do that," Peter squeezed Neal's hand again, feeling an odd stinging in his eyes. He was sure it was the lack of sleep catching up with him. "You relax."

"When I woke up before, I was scared." The blue eyes now began to droop in fatigue; just the brief exchange seemed to have drained him. His words were so faint Peter had to lean close to hear them. "I couldn't remember who I was supposed to be and there was no one to ask."

The thoughts of Neal waking in such a state tore at Peter's heart, but his distress was perfectly understandable. Neal had been a lot of people in his life and keeping his aliases straight was often a matter of life or death. Experiencing confusion about his identity would be a frightening thing, especially waking, disoriented and confused, with no familiar face to ground him. He could only imagine the scenarios that had rushed around Neal's addled mind. No wonder he'd been agitated.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Neal," Peter apologized, "but I'm here now. You can relax now, remember?"

"Will you be here when I wake up?" The eyes were hopeful, and his grip tightened on Peter's hand. It was almost as if they had switched roles. Before, Peter had been afraid Neal would disappear; now Neal seemed to be afraid he would. Peter guessed he didn't want to wake surrounded by unfamiliar faces again. He wanted to see someone he knew; someone who knew _him_. And here, that was Peter Burke.

It was already nearly one-thirty in the morning, and Peter wasn't sure how lenient the ICU staff would continue to be with the posted visiting hours. Of course, wild horses would not drag him away from Neal's bedside if he wanted him there. And he did; the blue eyes begged an answer.

If hospital staff cited regulations to him, he would have Agent Elliot put Neal under protective custody, volunteering himself to be his guard. As tired as he was, Neal's request and his resolve to grant it gave him renewed energy.

"I'll be here," he assured him firmly. "I'm not going anywhere; you get some rest."

His appeal granted, Neal relaxed his grip on Peter's hand, but did not let go. "Thank you," he whispered, eyes closing. "I'm glad you're here with me, Peter."

Neal was asleep before Peter could find his voice to respond, but he did so anyway.

"Me too, Neal," Peter said quietly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."


	16. Chapter 16

_Long chapter. I had a purpose to achieve, but it seemed to take me forever to get there. I thought about breaking it up, but decided against it. I hope it's not too long, or seems to drag. Reviews make me happy so don't be shy._

 **Chapter Sixteen**

Peter, his burst of adrenaline spent, found himself nodding off after only about twenty minutes of watching the slow rise and fall of Neal's chest. The stress of the day and Neal safe in front of him left him completely drained. The nurse, Brett as he had introduced himself, gave him a pillow and suggested that he relocate to the blue recliner near the window. As exhausted as he was, Peter was afraid to move; He didn't want to chance Neal waking up and not seeing him by his side. He explained his concerns to Brett, who appreciated his efforts to keep the patient calm. Apparently, Neal had caused quite a stir when he had been brought in. Instead of moving to the recliner, Peter pulled his chair closer, resting his head on the bed beside Neal. He was asleep almost immediately, but when Neal grew restless, the movement awakened him.

Neal wasn't conscious, but there was a look of discomfort on his face, and every so often, a low groan escaped his lips. When it didn't abate after several minutes, and his heart rate and blood pressure both began to rise, Peter moved from his place to summons the nurse. Just before he pressed the call button, as if on cue, Brett pushed the privacy curtain aside and entered.

"He's hurting," Peter said. "You said you'd give him something for the pain. I think its time you did." He hadn't meant to sound so abrupt, but giving orders came naturally to him, and he didn't have the energy for diplomacy; Neal was _hurting_.

"That's why I'm here," He took Peter's bearing in stride, not appearing to take offense. He had also responded well when Peter had announced that he would be spending the night in the ICU with Mr. Clay. He guessed it had been clear that he wasn't making a request, but a making a statement. After just a moment of what appeared as an inner debate, the nurse had acquiesced, keeping Agent Elliot from receiving a call from an irate Peter Burke demanding protective custody of Nathan Clay.

The nurse moved toward Neal, and Peter stepped back and moved his chair to allow him access to the patient. "This will get the pain under control," he explained. "We will give him a lower dose every four hours to keep ahead of it and keep him comfortable. Once his condition improves, he'll be switched to an oral pain management regiment."

Peter wasn't interested in information; he only wanted results. Another wave of pain brought Neal's eyes partially open, and he squirmed on the bed, his discomfort clearly growing.

"Mr. Clay," the nurse addressed him, "How are you feeling?" Peter knew the question was rhetorical since he didn't wait for an answer, but readied to administer the needed medication. "Having some pain? I have something to help with that."

Neal's eyes widened at his words and Peter stepped near, determined to calm any anxiety before it could grow into panic. It wasn't fear in Neal's face, this time; it was pain and Peter wasn't sure it was an improvement. That look, too, caused him almost physical pain. Peter was always amazed at how young Neal could look, but right now, it was especially true. Young and vulnerable; two things that made a fierce protectiveness rise in Peter's heart.

"I'm here," he said, reaching down and taking Neal's hand in his own, not caring if he was crowding Brett or not. Once the injection was complete, Peter could see the effects almost immediately; a dullness settled in Neal's blue eyes and his face relaxed.

" _Peter."_ His name was just a whisper on Neal's lips; there was a weak squeeze on his hand. Neal's eyes closed, but he knew Peter was there.

"Onset is immediate," Brett commented, reaching over and disposing of the syringe in the wall mounted Sharps container, "and it hits its peak within two-three minutes." He remained to make sure there were no adverse reactions and after mere moments, the hand in Peter's was limp. Neal's breathing was again slow and regular; his discomfort completely alleviated. The nurse checked the injection site, as well as the intravenous lines for any problems before he made ready to exit.

"Everything looks good." He assured. "We are monitoring his vitals from the station, but let me know if he needs anything."

"You know I will." Keeping Neal's hand in his own, Peter reached back and pulled his chair back to its previous place beside Neal's bed and took his seat.

"Yes," Brett admitted with a slight smile. "I know you will. I'll make sure he gets his pain medication before shift change. Try to rest, Agent Burke," he urged as he exited, "You look almost as bad as he does."

Peter didn't doubt his words. Once Brett had left the room, he put his head down on the bed. The steady humming of machines put him to sleep in minutes.

Either the nurse had neglected them, been unusually quiet or else Peter had been beyond disturbing. He guessed it had been the latter. Either way, he was aware of nothing at all until Neal began to stir. He was hyper-vigilant, and just the smallest of movements had brought him instantly from the deepest of slumbers. To say he was stiff was an understatement and when he checked the time, he knew why; nearly four hours had passed without incident. It was probably the reason Neal was again growing restless; it was time for the next dose of pain medicine. After the initial restless movement, Neal settled down. It was six-forty. Peter stood up and moved about the room. He tried to loosen his neck muscles and stretch his back; he was too old for this. He needed coffee, and he needed to call Elizabeth.

"Peter?" Peter knew by the clarity of his voice that Neal had pulled the oxygen mask from his face. When he turned, he saw he was right. He made his way back to his side.

"You have to keep this on," He instructed, taking it from Neal's hand and placing it back over his face. Neal didn't protest. "At least for now."

"Is it _bad_?" His eyes locked onto Peter's, begging the question; his mind had cleared enough to be worried about his condition.

"You're going to be okay, Neal," Just as he finished his reassurance, Brett arrived as promised; just before the change of shifts. He seemed pleased that Neal was awake.

"Good morning, Mr. Clay," he said, pulling the table near and setting the items he had brought with him. "How are you this morning?"

"You tell me," came the faint reply.

"You had muscle damage, as well as some damage to your right lung. The surgery to repair that damage was successful." Brett checked various lines and machine settings as he talked. "Your vitals have been consistently good, and your O2 stats are excellent. So much, in fact, that we can downgrade." He removed the mask Peter had just replaced on Neal's face and hooked up simple oxygen tubes instead. He then returned to the items he had arrived with and prepared to give Neal his medication. He repeated almost verbatim to Neal what he had said to Peter about pain management hours before as he readied the injection.

At Neal's concerned look, he added. "Pain causes stress on the body, Mr. Clay, especially the heart and lungs. While you are recovering, we want to limit that as much as possible."

A lower dose than the previous one, the medication didn't immediately reduce Neal to unconsciousness, but it did wipe both pain and worry from his face rather quickly: his head sinking deeper into the pillow. After a moment of observation, Brett cleaned up his supplies and disposed of the syringe. "They'll be taking you down for some follow-up tests shortly, and will probably try to get you to eat something afterward. The doctor will be in later today, and if everything looks good, you should be out of ICU and into a more comfortable room by mid-afternoon."

"I'd be more comfortable at the Waldorf," Neal's words were mumbled; the medication removed his pain and lessened his ability to articulate.

"The day nurse will be in to see you soon; she can explain the tests they will be doing." Before he stepped out, Brett addressed Peter. "I guarantee he's feeling better than you are at this point; You should go home and get some rest. Leave your number on the board there and someone will call if he needs you. Between tests and respiratory therapy, he's going to have a full morning."

"I'll be okay once I get some coffee in me." Peter didn't mention that home was an hour and a half away. A hotel room for a few hours, however, might well be in his future. But only when he was sure Neal would be fine on his own and the chances of him waking disoriented had passed.

"Okay, then, get some food to go with that coffee," he said. "Cafeteria is on the second floor, and believe it or not, the food is pretty good."

After the nurse had left them, Peter sat down. He found himself the subject of Neal's dull gaze. "You look awful, Peter," Blatant honesty. Any other time Peter would have welcomed it. "When did you get here?" His brow furrowed. "This is _Philadelphia_ , isn't it?"

"Yes, it's Philadelphia," Peter affirmed. They hadn't talked about what had happened, and Peter didn't know how much Neal remembered. He obviously didn't remember their brief exchanges during the night, and pain medication didn't improve his cognitive abilities. "and I look awful?" Peter asked sarcastically. "Have you taken a look at yourself lately, Mr. GQ? You aren't looking too magazine worthy yourself."

" _Mr. GQ?"_ Neal found that funny; he practically giggled. "You didn't come up with that."

"Someone might have mentioned it in passing," Peter admitted, enjoying the almost boyish look on Neal's face. He clearly took the nickname as a compliment. It reminded Peter of his thrill at learning he'd been called James Bonds.

"And you knew what they were referring to?"

"I am a highly trained Federal Agent in New York City," Peter responded as if the slight was an insult. "Just because I don't have a subscription doesn't mean I don't know what it is."

"Elizabeth told you, didn't she?" Even medicated, Neal was no fool. Of course, Elizabeth had told him. Peter's phone vibrated.

"Yes, she did," he admitted. It took him a moment to remember where he had put his phone. The night had passed in a blur. He stepped over to the recliner and retrieved it from his jacket pocket.

"And speaking of." He answered, his tone shifting immediately, "Hey hon." He paused. "I know, I'm sorry I haven't called. I was just getting ready to." Again he waited. "He's good, El, he's here right now giving me a hard time." He chuckled at her response, "Hang on a minute, El." He put his hand over the phone and addressed Neal. "I'm going down to get some coffee," he added. "I'll be right back."

"You can go home, Peter," Neal offered, "Thanks for staying with me, but I'm feeling good now." He _was_ feeling good, but Peter knew it was the opioids talking. He had his doubts the _good feeling_ would stand the test of time. "Go home," Neal continued, his eyes lagging between blinks, "get some rest and I'll call you tomorrow; I don't see them granting my freedom before then."

"Then I'm staying until tomorrow, too," Peter avowed firmly. "I'm not going home until I can take you with me."

"Take me with you?" Neal mumbled sleepily "That sounds really good, Peter. Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry about missing dinner."

After the Waldorf comment, Peter wasn't sure how Neal would respond to a summons to the Burke's house. Right now, he seemed pleased with the idea. But that too, Peter realized, might be opioid induced and not stand the test of time. Neal had been careful to keep his distance since he'd been back and Peter was sure it wasn't all because of the job they were working on.

"Don't worry," Peter said as Neal's eyes closed, "She'll reschedule; you can't duck out of a family dinner that easily."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"He really is doing good," Elizabeth had been concerned that his positive attitude was more for Neal's benefit than the benefit of the truth. He took a moment to explain what the nurse had told them about the day's schedule. "If he gets into a regular room this afternoon, they will probably discharge him sometime tomorrow."

"He'll need to have someone with him, at least for a few days." Peter already knew what she was going to suggest. "And he won't be cleared to fly for some time."

"I will bring him to the house, El," Peter assured her. "I already mentioned it, and right now, he's good with it."

"Right now?" She inquired.

"Right now he's medicated and very agreeable." He explained. "I don't know how long we can count on that to continue." He paused. "Last night, I couldn't leave him even after I knew he would be okay. He asked me to stay with him, El, he wanted me here."

"Of course, you couldn't leave him, Peter. He's family." she said. "and on some level, he knows that. I'm be down once I drop Little Neal off at Shelley's. I'll bring you a razor and a change of clothes."

"You don't have to come down, El," Peter protested. "It's a long drive; I can manage until tomorrow."

"What about Neal?" She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Can I drop by his suite and bring him some clothes?"

She was coming; that was settled. He could use a fresh shirt and Neal could use some clothes. Mr. GQ couldn't leave the hospital in a gown, and the clothes he had arrived in were out of the question; bloody and bagged for evidence.

"If you're set on coming, yeah, that would be good." Peter said. "I'll call Agent Singleton and have him meet you. It will take a badge to get you into his room. Security at the Waldorf is excellent."

"Give him my number and tell him to call me," Elizabeth replied. "I'll be there in time for you to take me to lunch. Neal gave some great recommendations, but you'll have to shave and change your shirt first."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter placed two additional calls while he was visited the cafeteria. He hated to leave Neal, but since he was already dozing, it seemed a good time to duck out for a bite to eat. And it was good to get out of the closet that passed as an ICU room.

He checked in with his office; they had their hands full doing financial backgrounds of the names that were being sent to them. If Jones thought it was strange that Peter was remaining in Philadelphia, there was no indication. Peter guessed that since the men who had kidnapped him were in custody in Philadelphia, Jones hadn't expected anything less. Funny, but Peter hadn't given them even a thought over the past hours. He made a mental note to check in with Agent Elliot at some point in the day for an update.

The second call was to Agent Singleton. He updated him on Neal's condition and gave him Elizabeth's number, and told him to call when he could meet her to pick up a few things from Neal's suite. After that, he enjoyed his sausage and cheese omelet, an orange juice and an extra large coffee.

He was gone longer than he had intended; enjoying the brightness of the sun streaming through the large glass walls to the east. Neal was fine; he was going to be fine. There had been no trips to the morgue to identify the body. No phone calls to make. He hadn't died or disappeared. Peter, in spite of his tiredness, felt very content with the state of things.

He got a refill and returned to the fourth floor, giving the required code to gain entrance into the ICU. When he arrived at Neal's room, however, Neal, bed and all, were missing. Apparently the scheduled mornings test had begun.

He stepped outside to get the attention of the nurse. "I guess they've taken him for tests?"

"Yes, they just took him down." Brett was gone, of course, leaving a heavy set brunette in his place. Her face was pleasant and her name, according to her hospital badge, was Ashley.

"Any idea when he'll be back up here?" He was wondering about the timing of Elizabeth's arrival.

"Maybe around eleven?" she speculated, checking her watch. "The tests take a couple of hours, plus he will be seeing the physical therapist as well as the respiratory therapist." She checked his chart. "He's going to be pretty worn out by the time he's done; his medication will probably put him out for awhile."

"Okay," he took a card from his wallet, flipped it over and wrote his cell number on the back. "This is my number. My wife is driving down from New York, and we'll probably get something to eat. Tell Ne…Nathan," He corrected. "That I'll be back in a little while."

"I will put it this in his chart." Her eyebrows rose when she read it. "Agent Burke of the FBI? So is your interest in Mr. Clay official or personal?"

In the past, he would have said _both_. "Personal," Peter answered. "He's my best friend. He's visiting from France."

"I see." She seemed to want more details, probably how a friend of a federal agent ended up with a bullet through his lung, but she didn't ask and Peter didn't volunteer. "If everything stays on course," she continued, "he should be in a room and feeling much more like himself later this afternoon."

"Thank you," Peter responded. He reached over and took his jacket from the chair. "Remember to tell him where I've gone and call me if anything changes."

Properly assured, Peter left to meet Elizabeth. After their usual greetings, a tight hug and brief kiss, she gave him some news of her own.

"I talked to Mozzie," she informed him. "He called me this morning just as I was stopping by Neal's suite. Have you ever seen the penthouse suite at the Waldorf?" she digressed. "That place is unbelievable. I think it has more square footage than our house."

"No, I haven't," Peter replied, getting off the topic of the Waldorf and back to the topic of Mozzie. "What did Mozzie want?"

"He called in a panic because Neal hadn't checked in with him at the appointed time; I told him what happened."

"Did he rant about Neal get hurt working with me?" It had been a reoccurring theme with Mozzie; Neal had been in more danger working for the FBI than he ever had been as a criminal. And as far as Peter knew, in the past two years since leaving the FBI behind, Neal hadn't even shot at. One week back with Peter and he had taken a bullet.

"No, he didn't." Elizabeth responded. "I think he was so relieved that Neal was going to be okay he forgot to launch off any soapboxes." She paused, sending a sideways look at Peter. "I think, like you, it brought back a lot of bad memories. He is flying to New York as soon as he can get a flight."

It didn't surprise Peter that Mozzie was on his way, or that the event had stirred some very unpleasant memories. One of the worst for Peter was standing in the hospital morgue with Mozzie. Even though the two of them had very different perspectives on most every topic under the sun, Neal was one thing they both had in common. Peter knew that Mozzie was devoted to Neal and that Neal was devoted to Mozzie. Mozzie, in truth, was the only person Peter had felt hurt as bad as he did when Neal Caffrey had died. Mozzie coming back to New York felt right; just as right as Neal coming back had.

Elizabeth had picked one of the restaurants Neal had reviewed in their living room the night of his return to New York. A lunch menu, the price was still steep. Peter again wondered about Neal's expense account. Even though he had denied it, Peter found it hard to believe Neal could afford the lifestyle he was currently enjoying. Of course, he knew little about the art gallery business in Paris, France. It was entirely possible Neal had amassed a fortune.

The food was excellent; he might as well add _Mr. Bon Appetit_ to Neal's growing list of nicknames.

Upon their return to the hospital, he checked on Neal's status and learned he was still in ICU. He had been cleared to be discharged from the unit, and they were waiting for a room to become available. He gave Elizabeth the update.

"I'll go check out the gift shop for awhile if you want to go on up." She was perceptive enough to know that, even though Peter had enjoyed getting out, he was curious about the test results as well as Neal's prognosis. "I might find something to brighten his room."

With a kiss and a promise to text her when Neal was in a room, he left her and returned to the fourth floor. He pressed the buzzer, recited the access code, and the wide doors swung open.

This time, Neal was present in body if not in mind. Just as Ashley had predicted, his activities coupled with medication had put him out like a light. He asked her how the morning had gone and she informed him that tests were all promising. The doctor had already spoken to Neal about his injuries, the measures they had taken as well as his prognosis. He would follow up with him the next morning, and if all continued to go well, would clear him for discharge that afternoon. She also assured Peter that a room had become available and was being cleaned now; Neal would be moved within the next half hour. Peter returned to the room, and while Neal slept, sent Elizabeth a text telling her what he had learned.

"Hey, Peter." He turned, pleased that Neal was awake, but felt his heart sink at the familiar, guarded look in the blue eyes.

Maybe because during the previous hours, there had been an openness there instead. Peter hadn't had to try to figure out what Neal was feeling, or what he needed; it had been clear by his face and even his words. It had been easy to comfort him, to hold his hand and tell him he would be there when he woke again. It had hurt Peter to see fear, uncertainty and pain in the eyes, but it had also made him feel connected to his friend in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time. Sadly, even before he had left New York and became Nathan Clay. Even this morning when Neal was pain free and lucid, he had still been open and accessible; Peter had still felt a connection. Their conversation had been relaxed and easy; Neal's smiles content. Now, he looked anything but content.

It was hard to explain the subtle difference in Neal, but there was one. Not just the expression in his eyes, but the set of his jawline, the stiffness in his posture. It wasn't pain; Peter had seen that. It was _tension_. The nurse had said that Neal would soon be feeling like his old self. And it had happened.

"Hey, Neal." Peter responded. There was a brief flicker of something in the blue eyes. Peter waited for what he was sure was coming; the correction of his name. But it didn't come.

"They told me you've been here since they brought me in." Peter couldn't tell if he was pleased or displeased with that knowledge.

"Not quite," Peter corrected. "But I got here as fast as I could. You had just come out of surgery." Again, emotion played briefly in Neal's eyes, but he shut it down before Peter could decipher it. His face now gave no clue to what was stirring in his heart, or his mind.

It suddenly occurred to Peter; this wasn't a _new_ thing, a trait of _Nathan Clay_. Peter had seen this behavior before. Shutting down and closing off was the way Neal Caffrey protected himself when he felt emotionally vulnerable. He would hide himself, taking on a cool and detached demeanor Peter had seen time and time again, and become someone else. Someone who didn't care and couldn't be hurt. The only difference was that now, he had given that part of himself a name. Nathan Clay.

"You didn't have to do that," Neal said quietly, "and you certainly don't have to stay."

For two years, Neal had protected himself by starting over and limiting his emotional entanglements. He shut down his emotions and closed off his feelings and kept his distance from anyone who could see through his façade. He managed fine with the new people in his life; the people who only knew Nathan Clay. But when confronted by people who knew him, it became more difficult to keep himself closed up. Elizabeth had spotted that the first time she had met Nathan Clay. He was lonely, she had said, and missed his life and the people he had left behind.

Neal had been glad when Peter had come. He was glad that someone knew him, really knew him. Only then, he had said, could he relax. Nathan Clay never relaxed, even now, he radiated a quiet tension from across the small space. Just as he had wanted to protect Neal during the night, he wanted to protect Nathan now. Neal Caffrey; Nathan Clay. They were just aspects of the same man; a _good_ man. His _friend._ He had known Nathan as long as he had known Neal. He just hadn't realized it until now.

"Of course I had to," Peter stepped near, determined to close the distance, both literally and figuratively, between them. He placed his hand on Neal's arm. "That's what friends do; they go where they are needed."

His words achieved their mission; the façade was slipping. There were emotions in his eyes that he couldn't chase away. "Still," he looked away, "it's a long way to come."

"It's not that far," Peter squeezed his arm gently. "It's much closer than Venezuela."

A touch of color hit his pale cheeks and his eyes found Peter's. "Well, friends go where they are needed."


	17. Chapter 17

_Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing my story; I appreciate each and every comment. It helps me keep motivated._

 _I've played fast and loose with medical protocol and procedures, so don't be too hard on me. :)_

 **Chapter Seventeen**

It was almost three when the nurse, Ashley, returned to transport Neal to his room. She unhooked the IV from his arm, leaving the line in place.

"You're fluid output has been good so we are discontinuing the IV," she explained to him, "We will leave the line in until we get the discharge orders-just in case something comes up, we won't have to stick you again." She didn't removed the oxygen tubes, however. Apparently they would be with him a bit longer.

Peter followed her through a maze-like path; she was skilled at maneuvering the bed around corners and through narrow openings. Arriving at her destination, she stopped in front of another set of large closed doors. She motioned to the waiting area, complete with snack machines and a television with closed captions broadcasting CNN.

"If you will wait here," she said, "someone will get you once he's settled in. He's in room 421. You'll enter here, then go all the way around to the left."

Peter did as he was bidden, watching the nurse press the silver access button, and the doors swing open. She rolled Neal through and they swung silently closed behind her. He looked around the area, trying to get his bearings; hospitals were always so confusing. The A, Azalea, Elevators were to the right. He sent a text to Elizabeth, giving her some directions and Neal's room number, but told her not to rush.

Shortly afterward, Ashley exited and stopped to speak to him before she returned to the ICU.

"We've got him moved, Agent Burke, but he asked for a few minutes before visitors were allowed back."

Visitors meant him. Peter had hardly left Neal's side since he arrived and last night his presence had been welcome. But now things were different, or rather, getting back to normal. The request didn't surprise him, but it did on some level hurt his feelings. Ashley must have picked up on his displeasure.

"He's had a difficult morning, and although he was growing increasingly uncomfortable, he was reluctant about his pain medication," she explained. "He said he didn't like the way it affected his thought process. I told him that after he gets something in his stomach, we can switch to oral medications; they have a less dramatic onset."

Of course he didn't like the way medication affected his thought processes, Peter thought, it disabled his defensive mechanisms. "Did he take it?"

"Yes," She confirmed, "but he insisted on a lower dosage than was prescribed, so his pain won't be as well managed."

Peter sighed. Neal was back to his old self after all.

She resumed her duties, and he took a seat. He would just wait for Elizabeth to finish her shopping so they could go in together. He saw the balloons escaping the elevator doors before he saw his wife. Her intentions to brighten Neal's room came in the shape of a flower arrangement in a small silver vase, with several bright colored balloons trailing upwards. One particularly large one had _Get Well Soon_ printed on it.

"I thought you'd already be back there," she said. She handed the arrangement to Peter and shifted the other items she was carrying in her grasp. Peter was surprised she had managed them all as long as he had. She had a travel bag with what he guessed were Neal's things, her usual, oversized bag, and another bag printed with the hospital gift shop logo. Then, of course, the large arrangement had been balancing precariously in her hand. The gift shop bag appeared to be quite full; she had been shopping the better part of an hour. There was no telling what items she had decided Neal needed for his stay in the hospital.

"I decided to wait for you," he answered, pressing the button and waiting for the doors to open. "Neal is back to being Nathan and wanted some time to regroup before he had visitors. Go left," He instructed, "Room 421."

"Well, Neal can be Neal, or Nathan, or whomever he wants to be," Elizabeth declared, taking the lead with purposeful steps. "That really doesn't change who he is, you know, or what he means to us."

Peter was aware that Elizabeth had done a lot of soul-searching after she had found Neal in Paris. She hadn't been proud of the way she had behaved, and it had caused her to look back on her treatment of Neal Caffrey. Of _their_ treatment of Neal Caffrey. She had come to blame him for complicating their lives with his past, with his antics, with his disregard for the rules. But whenever something happened and Peter was in danger, or trouble, she counted on him to do what Neal Caffrey did best; whatever was necessary to solve the problem.

And Peter knew he had done the same thing. He constantly lectured Neal on his character flaws, telling him he could be either a man or a con, but then counted on his skills as a con man to nab criminals and close cases. Neal had always accepted the Burke's as they were; he didn't judge or try to change them. All he had tried to do was please them. Mixed signals and ever changing expectations had put him in an impossible situation.

They had been wrong; she told Peter, and unfair to their friend from the very beginning. She had even gone back to Paris to tell Nathan Clay that in person; to apologize and ask forgiveness for her selfish behavior. _I will never ask you to be anyone other than who you are_ ; she had told him. He was family; he was always a welcome part of their lives.

Her acceptance of him was unconditional and that was her attitude as she marched down the hallway bearing gifts. Nathan Clay better have used his time wisely if he wanted his defenses to stand a chance against Elizabeth Burke.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal was sitting in a bed that was much larger, and looked more comfortable, than the one he had occupied in the ICU. His head had been elevated, and pillows placed behind him so that he was fairly upright. He had done some grooming; his wayward hair had been smoothed down and the four o'clock shadow have been removed. Neal _had_ used his time wisely; his demeanor was composed in spite of the oxygen tubes that still graced his pale face.

The room itself was larger, too, with a sofa and a chair in addition to the usual hard plastic one; a window provided an uninspired view of the city. The hospital over-bed table was positioned across his midsection; a large hospital cup with a straw sat there along with an open box lunch. Neal was frowning at the half sandwich he had just removed from the container, possibly debating whether to take a bite or not. He looked up when they entered; the scowl was replaced with a smile when he saw Elizabeth. His expression became more amused at the sight of Peter, trailing behind her with his dramatic cargo, trying to corral the balloons as he came through the door. Peter set the arrangement on the small table near the sofa.

"Elizabeth," Neal seemed pleased to see her in spite of his following qualifier. "You didn't have to come down here."

Neal looked better to Peter than he had, but he knew his appearance still carried somewhat of a shock factor for Elizabeth. The last time she had seen him, he had been charming her at the Burke house; he did look a bit worse for wear in comparison. She put her bags down and rushed over to the bed to plant a kiss on Neal's cheek. His face blushed just as it always did and Elizabeth ignored it. Just as she always did.

"I know I didn't have to come," She answered, "I _wanted_ to. I was worried about you."

"No need to worry," Neal's smile faltered slightly. "I'm fine." Elizabeth's eyebrows raised at his words, indicating how little she believed him. He hurried on. "I'm just sorry I'm going to have to miss dinner with the Burkes." He glanced at the discarded sandwich, trying to re-energized his smile. "More sorry than you know."

She picked up sandwich Neal had been contemplating. "Is this ham?" She checked the contents of the box. "Soft and bland, but I'm sure the cafeteria has something acceptable and more appetizing than this. I'll go down and see what they have, but first," she retrieved the gift shop bag from the floor and placed it on the bed by Neal's feet. "I want to show you what I've brought you."

She began withdrawing the fruits of her shopping trip and explaining her choices; there were magazines and some basic care items. There were a toothbrush and toothpaste set, a comb and shaving kit. A soft blanket and neck pillow, and a package with a small, mask shaped pouch. Elizabeth tore it open. "It's called a Dream Pillow," Elizabeth said, holding it near Neal's face so he could have a whiff. "You wear it over your eyes. It's aromatherapeutic; it's supposed to help you relax and alleviate stress."

Neal looked like he needed some stress alleviated; there was a tightening around his mouth that indicated he was experiencing discomfort. Peter didn't know if it was the result of the lower dose of pain medication or Elizabeth's fussing over him that was taking a toll. "Very nice, thank you, Elizabeth," Neal said. "But you really shouldn't have."

"Also, Peter said you'd be discharged tomorrow, so I went by the Waldorf and picked up some clothes for you. I hope that was okay."

"That was very thoughtful of you," Neal replied, his discomfort growing, "But I'm surprised they let you in. Security there is supposed to be very strict."

"Being married to an FBI agent has its perks," She replied, stepping over and picking up the travel bag. "I brought your pajamas and tried to pick out an outfit that would be simple to put on to wear home. One other thing," She reached into her bag and produced a cell phone. "This was by your bed; I thought you might need it." She handed it to Neal. "Mozzie was worried; he called me this morning."

Her announcement shook Neal's already slipping composure; his eyes widened, betraying his distress. "I was supposed to call him when I got back to New York."

"When you didn't call, and he couldn't reach you…"

"He freaked out and called you." Neal shook his head, "I can't believe I did that to him; I should have had someone call him. I …I just didn't _think_."

"You have a pretty good excuse," Peter reminded him, trying to halt Neal's self-recrimination. "Elizabeth told him what happened and that you're going to be okay." He paused before adding. "But of course, he has to see for himself, so he's on his way."

"He's coming here?" That distressed him even more. "He shouldn't do that; He hates to fly," He had told both Peter and Elizabeth the same thing; they didn't have to come. It was good to know that Mozzie would get the same treatment.

"He was booking a flight as soon as we hung up," Elizabeth said. "I told him you'd be staying at our house for awhile, so he will meet up with you there."

Neal's eyes narrowed at her words, and his chin raised slightly, the emotion from mere seconds before vanishing as if they had never been. Peter had mentioned the same thing to him the night before, and he had seemed pleased. But even then, Peter had known that once he was feeling more like himself, he wouldn't be as keen on the idea.

"I have the suite at the Waldorf for another week, Elizabeth, I'll be fine there." His voice was calm but the way he gripped the blanket, pulling it upwards almost imperceptibly as he spoke told Peter was anything but calm. After two years of keeping his distance from everyone, the thoughts of being homebound with the Burkes for an indefinite period of time was filling him with apprehension.

"You'll need some help," Elizabeth said gently. "At least for the first few days. I know the Burke guest room isn't the penthouse suite, but…" She paused, then reached down and squeezed his arm. "I know all of the this-all of us-is overwhelming; You've been on your own a long time. But I promise, if you come home with us, just for a while, we'll give you plenty of space. We'll just be there if you need us."

She had read him perfectly and said exactly the right thing; his eyes wavered with uncertainty. "I don't want to intrude on your family." His voice was so quiet that Peter barely picked up his words.

"But you are family, _Uncle Nathan_ ," Elizabeth's eyes twinkled at the title, "You can't intrude when you belong there."

Peter had known that Elizabeth would be a force to be reckoned with and Nathan Clay, already worn down physically and emotionally, would have a hard time withstanding her kind persistence. Neal's eyes met hers briefly before he looked away, clearly touched by her proclamation. Elizabeth responded by giving him what she had promised; space.

She turned to Peter. "Let's go down and see what the cafeteria has to offer in lieu of this-" she motioned at the box lunch on the table. "Let's give him some privacy in case he wants to make any calls. Mozzie might not be the only one who would like to hear from him."

"You are so good," Peter remarked as they exited the room. "You knew exactly what to say to get through to him."

"It's really not that hard, Peter," she said. "He wants what everyone wants; to be wanted, to _belong_ somewhere. No matter how hard he works to convince himself otherwise, that hasn't changed."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

They took their time and after Elizabeth looked through the menu and picked out some she thought Neal might like, they returned to his room. If Neal had made any calls, he had finished them by the time they arrived. Peter smiled when he saw the title of the magazine Neal was flipping through; _Bon Appetit._ He wondered if a GQ Magazine had been included in the stack Elizabeth had provided.

"This isn't likely to measure up to anything in there," She said as she sat the bag down and began to unpack, "but it's a better than your first option."

"I'm really not hungry," he admitted, laying the magazine aside, "but I know I have to eat. I was just trying to stir my appetite a bit."

"After all you've been though, that's not surprising," she commented. "I know you like pasta," she said, taking out a container and putting it in front of him, "This is Chicken Zucchini Penne tossed in olive oil and herbs. I also picked up this," she set out another container, "Cottage cheese and peaches." She added a roll to the mix, then provided him with plastic dinnerware. "See what you think."

He took a tentative bite of the pasta. "Not too bad," he offered a smile of approval. "Thanks, Elizabeth,"

"You are very welcome," she replied. When Neal didn't seem interested in further conversation, she left him to his pasta and busied herself putting away his things.

Elizabeth retrieved the travel bag and removed the clothes she had brought from his room. The pajamas, she placed in the drawer under the bed side table, along with what appeared to be underwear and socks. She then removed the travel outfit, smoothed it out a bit, and hung it in the narrow closet. She and Peter made small talk over the next few minutes, occasionally making an effort to draw Neal in, but he did not seem overly eager to engage. He seemed occupied with his food, but Peter was sure he had other things on his mind.

Elizabeth situated the other items she had brought him, briefly explaining where she was putting each item. The pillow, blanket and dream pillow, she put within his reach. The toiletry items she placed on the recessed sink.

Satisfied that everything was in it's place, she announced the time for her departure had arrived. She gave Neal a parting kiss on his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" She picked up her own bag and turned to Peter. "I have your clothes in the car. Walk me out?"

"Peter," Neal finally initiated, "Please go home; I will call you when I get a discharge time. There's no use in you sleeping in a chair when you have a perfectly good bed at home. I'll be fine on my own."

"I know you would be," Peter conceded, "but I'm not going until you can come with me, remember?" He nodded towards the sofa, "anyway, I won't have to sleep in a chair tonight."

After saying goodbye to Elizabeth, he returned to find that Neal was not alone in his room. He had odd looking clip on his nose and was breathing into a tube. The tube connected to a machine that sat on a cart and a technician was monitoring whatever data was being gathered, and offering encouraging words.

"That's good, Mr. Clay," she was saying, "Keep it up. Just a few more seconds."

When he had accomplished whatever task had been set before him, she took the tube from him and removed the clip.

"How did I do?" He seemed a bit breathless from the exertion.

"Better than last time." She removed the mesh from the mouthpiece, disposed of it, and placed the apparatus back in its position on the machine. "And I think you experienced less discomfort this time as well, am I correct?"

"Yes," he answered. "This wasn't as bad as before."

"That's what we want to hear," she said, entering information into the machine. "Your lung function is improving. We'll continue these exercises while you are here and will give you some follow up one to do once you are released." She stood and used a hand held scanner to scan Neal's wristband. She looked up, seeing Peter; he had stayed quietly by the door while the tests were going on. "I see you have company."

She rolled the cart past Peter and with a nod, exited the room. She pulled the door closed behind her.

"Sounds like your doing good," Peter said as he moved into the room. He moved towards Neal's small closet, opened it, and hung an outfit of his own alongside the one Elizabeth had placed there. The small duffel he kept in his possession. "Do you mind if I take a quick shower? I'd love to wash off these layers of stress sweat I'm caked in."

"Is that what I've been smelling?" he asked, crinkling his nose. " _Please do_."

"Funny," Peter's tone was sarcastic, but he couldn't help but smile: it was good to see a little levity in the blue eyes.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Things had been so intense during Neal's hospital stay, and even during Elizabeth's short visit that Peter was a little concerned about how the evening hours would pass once he and Neal were left alone. There had been a tension in Neal since mid afternoon, and even though he had lowered them on occasion, his defenses seemed to be back in place. The openness from before was gone, and Neal had grown quiet; Peter feared the awkwardness.

After his shower, he found Neal quiet and pre-occupied, the brief levity having faded from his eyes. He had picked up another magazine and flipped through it absently, not inviting conversation. Peter tried to break the silence with small talk, but his attempts were futile. Neal clearly had something on his mind and Peter felt his presence was adding to Neal's stress. He had begun to doubt his decision to stay when Neal finally put the magazine down and addressed him.

"You've been really good Peter, but let's have it. How bad did I blow it?"

" _Blow it_?" Peter, surprised by Neal's sudden willingness to speak, was confused by the question. "What are you talking about?"

"The operation, Peter." His voice was anxious, "They shot me, so things clearly didn't go as planned. So, how bad?"

It dawned on Peter; Neal didn't remember what had happened. He thought he'd somehow blown the operation. Peter left his chair and moved closer to Neal. "You don't remember what happened?"

"Let's say things get a little fuzzy after the box of severed hands were dumped on the floor," Neal retorted. "So what _happened_?"

"Box of _severed hands_?" Peter had heard a remark about hands, and heads, being cut off but somehow he'd missed that severed hands had actually been present at the gallery.

"Yes, severed hands all over the floor; it was pretty gruesome." Neal's tone was impatient. "Tell me what happened, Peter, what gave me away?"

No wonder Agent Elliot had been tied up all night. It would have been a crime scene and forensic nightmare. "Nothing gave you away," he answered, pulling his mind away from the mental picture Neal had inserted in his mind, "and the operation was a success; in fact, a bigger success than we could have anticipated."

"I don't understand," Neal said doubtfully, "If they didn't find out I was working with the Feds, why did they shoot me?"

"They weren't trying to shoot you, they were trying to shoot someone else and you got in the way." Peter reached down and put his hand on Neal's arm. "You shoved the man out of the way; you saved his life."

Neal thought that over a moment. "So Cordero's people don't know I was working for you, don't know about the tracking devices?"

"No, they're none the wiser. They just think Nathan Clay is a delivery man with an aversion to violence," Peter smiled, "You know, the sensitive, artsy type."

"I _am_ the sensitive artsy type." He looked up at Peter questioningly. "So, you've not been sticking to me like glue because you think Cordero is coming after me?"

"Is that what you thought?" Peter asked, "That this was some kind of protection detail?"

"I know how you are. I was just happy you didn't have an armed guard outside my door."

"Well, now you know better," Peter said. "I'm not here to protect you; I'm here because you're my friend." He smiled "And if I thought you were in danger, I'd have had more than an armed guard outside the door; I'd have had an entire unit."


	18. Chapter 18

_chapitre de l'enfer. Pardon my French..._

 _Long, mostly introspective chapter. Hope that's okay._

 _Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing, following and favoriting my story. I appreciate all the support and encouragement I can get. :)_

 **Chapter Eighteen**

 _Friendship._ That was what Neal was thinking about as he listened to Peter snoring, stretched out on the sofa that ended about six inches short of his legs. It was just after two thirty in the morning and things were remarkably quiet. Neal could tell he was doing better by the infrequency of the staff visits to his room. He hadn't seen anyone since his medication had been brought to him just after eleven p.m. It had been well before then that Peter had reclined on the sofa, Elizabeth's gift under his head, with the television on. The volume was down so low Neal doubted Peter could hear the dialogue, but his eyes had been fixed on the images until exhaustion finally caught up with him. He had been sleeping peacefully for some time when Neal's night medications had arrived. At his insistence the CNA, a perky blond named Danielle, had retrieved an extra blanket and spread it over Peter's still form. It wasn't long after Neal took his medication that his pain eased and he, too, drifted off to sleep.

He had been awakened by growing discomfort that told him it was still about an hour before his next dose of medication; a look at the clock verified it. Although it didn't relieve his pain completely and wore off before the next dose was due, Neal preferred the new medication over the previous one. It left him a little fuzzy but not as much as the injections had, and the edge of constant pain helped keep his thoughts focused. This had been of vital importance to him earlier in the day as he tried to determine what his best course of action should be.

At the time, the only logical explanation for his current situation was that the Cordero organization was somehow aware of his duplicity. They had either been a leak or he had screwed up; either way, his circumstances had changed. The nurse told him Agent Burke had refused to budge despite hospital policies, and his attitude had stifled any resistance from the staff. Neal had seen Peter's _FBI Official Duty_ stance and could understand why opposition had melted before it. He knew Peter now felt a duty to protect him, but that was a role he couldn't let him resume. Being hunted by the Cordero family he could deal with; being held in protective custody by the FBI was something else altogether. He wanted to be Peter's friend, not his responsibility. He'd just as soon strap another tracking device to his ankle. The problem was that if he were in danger Peter's resolve would not be deterred in spite of any protest Neal made to the contrary.

Neal had hoped the trip to New York might prove the first step toward home, but that was quickly becoming unlikely. The situation had reverted them into roles all too familiar; roles he had taken great steps to escape and would not be trapped in again. He felt growing desperation as he ran though the options in his head. The best and most immediate solution to the problem was for him to disappear, to go to ground until he could assess the extent of the danger. Mozzie was on his way; he'd have some resources, some help. He had to get away from the east coast; away from the Burkes. The desolation he felt as he came to that sad conclusion was almost unbearable; the relief when he learned that he wasn't on a hit list of some kind, and he didn't have to run, had almost brought him to tears.

 _I'm not here to protect you; I'm here because you're my friend._

His dinner arrived just as Peter finished this proclamation and Neal felt tears of relief spring to his eyes despite Peter's attempt at levity. He looked away quickly but knew Peter had seen them; knew Peter was as embarrassed to witness the emotion as he was to show it. He couldn't help it. It had been a long day and Elizabeth had already brought him to the brink of tears once with her talk of family. It hadn't taken much to get him there again. The arrival of his dinner rescued them from the awkwardness that was bound to follow; Peter stepped out of the way and the tray was placed on the over-bed table.

"Looks pretty good tonight." The young lady lifted the plate cover, looking curiously from one man to the other; she must have known she had interrupted something. "Meatloaf, potatoes, steamed carrots and apple cobbler." There was also a container of tea on the tray and a packet of condiments.

Neal, still blinking hard against the sudden emotion, mumbled some appreciative words and kept his eyes fixed on the peaks of the whipped potatoes.

"I'm going to run down and grab a bite to eat," Peter's voice sounded odd, too, as he headed for the door. "You know, before the cafeteria closes. I'll be back."

After Peter had exited the room, the young lady spoke. "Are you okay, Mr. Clay?" she asked. "Did you get bad news or something?

"No," He said thoughtfully. He might not want to stay _forever_ , but he didn't have to leave _now_. "Actually, the opposite for a change."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

By the time Peter returned with a cheeseburger and fries, Neal had regained his composure as well as his curiosity. As they settled in to eat their dinner, he asked Peter to fill him in on the missing parts in his memory.

Peter seemed happy to oblige and provided a rundown of the events as he had heard them transpire. Neal hadn't missed a lot of what happened at the gallery, but of course, he had missed an important detail; why he had been shot. When Peter related the incident the anxiety of the moment, although now passed, still came through in the telling.

"Things deteriorated fast," Peter's voice was tense, "I heard the shots, heard you cry out. I didn't hear anything after that; I…I left. I had to get here," his volume dropped, "had to get to _you_."

His tone of voice and expression reminded Neal of their discussion at the Midtown Gallery. Peter had been afraid something would go wrong during the operation, and Neal had assured him it wouldn't. But it had gone wrong, and Peter had heard his fears realized; over a radio from a hundred miles away. He had felt helpless; Neal could hear it in his voice.

"I'm sorry Peter," Neal murmured, picking at his cobbler. Helplessness was not an emotion Peter handled well. Nor did he, for that matter.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Peter assured him, moving past the memory. "You did a great thing; saved a man's life. It just scared me; that's all." Neal couldn't imagine what it would be like for him to hear Peter shot; to hear him gasp in pain and be unable to help. That would be torture, much worse than taking a bullet himself. "I was fine once I talked to Agent Elliot," Peter continued, "and he told me you were going to be okay; better when I got here and could see for myself."

Neal had been on an emotional roller coaster the past week, but he hadn't been on the ride alone. Peter, too, had experienced emotional ups and downs over the past days and especially over the past several hours.

"You said the operation was a bigger success than anticipated." Neal reminded, pushing the conversation back into less stressful real estate. "Do you mean the information on your kidnappers?"

That was part of it, Peter admitted. He'd been surprised when that had come across the wire; he had come to terms with the fact that he'd never identity the people responsible and suddenly he not only had the names of the men who had taken him but the man who had ordered it.

"El Rey?" If there had been another name mentioned it was part of Neal's obscured memories.

"Thomas Delonte, actually," Peter supplied. "A businessman from Queens. White Collar is digging into his financials, but they already are building a case based on statements from Javier Mendez."

Although somewhat familiar, Neal didn't recognize that name either. Seeing his blank look, Peter continued. "He's the man you saved; the Cordero man who was working for the competition."

That detail stirred a memory. "His family was threatened," Neal commented, shifting in the bed. The edge of pain along his right side was becoming a bit sharper. "He didn't have a choice."

"I know," Peter acknowledged, "That's the rest of the success story; He's agreed to cooperate with the authorities in exchange for leniency and protection for both he and his family. His information, in tandem with the information gathered during the original operation, can take down the organization now, not later."

"You have a witness from the inside." Neal had all of the dinner he could stomach; leaving well more than half behind. He put the trash onto his plate, replaced the brown cover and pushed it aside.

"Want me to call them?" Neal looked up to find Peter's concerned eyes on him. "It's past time. They said every four hours and its been," he checked his watch, "Four hours and twenty minutes."

Apparently he'd done a poor job hiding his discomfort. "It's shift change," he answered, "They'll get here as soon as they can. I'm fine," He lied, and Peter's expression told him he knew it. "So," Neal continued, "someone besides me can testify to what was said in the gallery." He was glad of that. It had entered his mind that, to get the men on kidnapping charges, he'd have to be willing to come forward.

"And he doesn't know we have the incident on tape. We will know exactly what to ask and be able to verify his information. We can see how forthcoming he's really prepared to be." He shrugged. "Elliot thinks it likely that the others will follow suit and cooperate in exchange for lesser charges."

Neal saw a look of relief on Peter's face as the nurse entered the room; the usual cart was left outside the door. She was tall, about Peter's age with dark brown hair pulled severely into a low ponytail. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. There was a no-nonsense look about her.

"Hello, Mr. Clay," She began, moving forward and handing him a small white cup containing his evening medication. "Antibiotic and pain medication. My name is Susan, and I am your night nurse."

"It's about time," Peter growled under his breath. Neal shot him a look of warning as he downed the pills. Susan didn't seem like the type to antagonize.

She ignored Peter and checked Neal's dinner plate, raising the cover and then replacing it. "I'll have Danielle bring something else in for you," she said firmly. "Pudding? Jello? Both of your prescriptions are hard on the stomach; you'll need more in your stomach than this or you won't tolerate them well." She stepped over to the whiteboard on the wall, wiped it clean, and filled in the spaces with new names. When she finished, she checked his vitals, making notations in his file. There was silence as she worked; whether she was pleased with the results was unclear. Her expression remained the same.

She was quick and efficient. She removed the oxygen from his nose and clipped the O2 sensor to his finger. "We will see how you do on your own; that will determine whether the doctor will want to send you home with a tank." She finished her tasks, ready to move on to the next patient on the hall. "What's it going to be?" she asked, pausing by the door. "Vanilla pudding or orange jello? We might have lime; I can have them check if you want."

None of the options sounded good, but Neal didn't feel that refusal was an option. "Orange jello?"

She was true to her word; less than five minutes later a young lady arrived, removed his tray and placed two cups of orange jello in front of him. Her name tag, of course, read Danielle. "If you need anything else, just hit the call button," she said, and with a smile at each of them, left.

"Better eat up, or I'll call Susan on you," Peter teased. Neal rolled his eyes but pulled the top off the cup anyway. It wasn't bad; the cool felt good on his not-so-settled stomach. Peter rattled on about White Collar being inundated with dozens of backgrounds to run as Neal dutifully ate the first and then second cup of jello. The pain had eased and Neal, jello finished, found himself zoning out as Peter discussed financial profiles and other boring White Collar tasks.

"Medicine working?" The change in topic got Neal's attention. "You look like you're feeling a little better." Neal's head was beginning to swim, and he guessed Peter could see it in his eyes, thus the timing of the question.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better," Neal replied. "It was not really that bad before; it just started to get on my nerves."

Peter's initial skeptical look changed to one of question. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"

That was an unexpected turn. "Given the fact that I've just been drugged I think your timing is a little unfair." Neal admonished playfully. "Anything I say will be unusable due to _diminished capacity_."

Peter studied him a moment. "It not about anything like that, I just want an honest answer. Can you give me one?"

Neal felt his muscles tense in anticipation in spite of the general relaxed feeling the medicine was now providing. He took a breath, gathered his thoughts, and exhaled slowly. Meeting Peter's eyes, he answered. "I will try."

"Are you thinking about running off? Of just disappearing again?"

His look of disbelief must have come across to Peter as if he hadn't even considered such a thing and was shocked by the question. Of course, the truth was the exact opposite and his disbelief was that Peter had picked up on it. Two years and some things, uncannily, remained the same.

"I'm sorry." Peter shook his head regretfully. "I know that's not fair. I'm just tired and paranoid I guess. You have no _reason_ to run; its just… I've had this feeling all day that you have one foot out the door."

Peter apologizing only made Neal feel worse for his earlier thoughts. "I'm hardly in any condition to do any running," He replied, lifting the oxygen tube up as evidence to the fact and giving Peter a weak smile. "I'd probably pass out after ten yards."

It was not an answer but a deflection, and he knew Peter knew it. "I know you've been playing with the idea of coming back," Peter's gaze remained steady, "and I know you have mixed feelings."

Of course he knew, thought Neal, he's _Peter_. Neal had promised he would try to be honest so he gave it a shot.

"After I saw you in Venezuela," He began tentatively, "I kept thinking about what you'd said to me at the airport."

"I asked you to come back to New York with me." That wasn't all he had said, Neal recalled. He'd said a lot more than that.

 _A lot of people cared about you, would still care about you given the opportunity. People see the good in you; you are a good man. I am honored that you thought of me as your best friend, but I want you to know that I am more than proud to call you mine._

"Yeah, and then Elizabeth came back to Paris," he continued. "She said if I ever wanted to come to New York, I'd be welcome." He paused. Being honest wasn't an easy thing, especially when it related to his feelings. He struggled on. "I tried to forget about seeing you, tried to go back to my no contact rule, but I couldn't."

Peter just nodded, keeping his eyes on Neal's, encouraging him to continue. He did. "Then, after we talked, I couldn't stop thinking about coming home." _Home._ He'd said it again. "But I just wasn't sure it would work out, me coming back."

Peter's eyes softened, telling Neal he'd picked up on the reference too. "So when this Cordero thing came up, you thought you'd give it a test run, come back and see how things went?"

"Something like that." _Exactly_ like that.

Peter's brow furrowed. "But you're still not sure, are you? Something about coming back still scares you, doesn't it?"

Neal didn't like Peter's choice of words. He wasn't _scared_ , just apprehensive, and it wasn't one thing it was several. He didn't know how to answer.

"I wasn't being paranoid, was I?" Peter asked softly. Neal looked away, unable to meet his eyes, and he continued, a tone of incredulous disbelief in his voice. " _Why?"_

Running away had been a theme in Neal's life, a coping mechanism he had used time and time again. When he felt trapped, or scared, or uncertain his first instinct was to retreat and regroup, or if the situation merited it, simply disappear and start over. He had felt that tug more than once since his return to New York, especially when confronted with things that stirred up mixed emotions. He had known that would happen; had planned for it. The only time he'd been blindsided was when he thought Peter had him in protective custody. That had triggered his flight response in full measure, but he hadn't acted in haste. He'd waited to get more information. The old Neal wouldn't have waited; he reminded himself. The minute he had felt that fear, that desperate need to escape, he'd have acted. He'd charmed the pretty intern from physical therapy, been in a set of scrubs and a taxi a half an hour after leaving Peter's sight. She'd probably even paid his fare and given him a key to her apartment. Instead he'd waited to think it through. _He had changed_. Nathan Clay didn't flee from situations. He might decide, after due consideration, to leave one, but he wouldn't just run away; there was a difference.

"I'm not going to run away," He stated firmly, knowing now that it was true. "I'm not going to disappear, or fake my death or leave without saying goodbye." There was relief on Peter's tired face at his words. "I plan to have dinner just like I promised, with you, Elizabeth and-" he paused slightly "-Neal. But after that," He searched Peter's face, hoping he could understand the complexity of the decision he had to make, "I don't _know_ what I'm going to do, Peter, so don't ask me _. I don't know_." Neal didn't like the desperate tone that had slipped into his voice but he couldn't help it. He didn't want any more questions. "I just need some time to think."

Peter, picking up on Neal's stress level, relented immediately. "Okay," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "I didn't mean to pressure you." He dropped his hands. "I just want you to know that you don't have to figure it out by yourself. I mean," his face flushed slightly, "unless you _want_ to figure it out by yourself and then, of course, well you _can_ -"

"Peter." Peter stopped when Neal said his name, looking both embarrassed and expectant. "Thanks for being here," Neal finished. "It means more than you know."

Peter let out a breath, probably grateful to have had his awkward rambling halted by Neal's gratuitous statement. "You're welcome," He replied. "Friends go where they're needed, remember?"

"I remember."

"I just want you to know I'm here if you need to talk," Peter said, his expression telling Neal that he meant every word. "I'm not that great at it, but I can listen, give you someone to bounce things off of." He paused before finishing. "At the end of the day, you deserve to be happy Neal, and whatever that means, either staying here or going back to Paris, that is what I want you to do."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Neal shifted in his bed, trying to find a position that would ease his discomfort. He looked at the clock again: 2:50. Peter's snoring was intermittent. Sometimes, he slept soundlessly, other times his snoring would reverberate though the small room. At the present moment, he was resting quietly. Neal had been awake for awhile, unable to drift back to sleep, and the events of the day were still playing over in his mind. He had been all over the map emotionally; from fear and despair to relief and gratitude.

Peter had said he should do whatever would make him happy but it wasn't easy to know what that was. Neal had pretty much did what he _thought_ would make him happy all his life. The problem was that he hadn't always thought things through, or counted the costs of his actions, and that had led to a lot of heartaches. He saw what he wanted and took it; decided something would be fun or exciting and did it. Sometimes he had been happy, but more often than not, the cost had outweighed the benefits. Any happiness he'd achieved had been fleeting, short-lived.

He tried to curb his tendency to act without thought of the consequences, yet it continued to get him into trouble; to get _everyone_ into trouble. After he started a life as Nathan Clay, he worked on that character flaw-in addition to several others-with renewed vigor. He learned to discipline himself to approach life the way he had always approached a con: with meticulous planning and attention to detail. The more emotionally involved he was in a situation, the more careful he had to be. He had to detach himself and not allow feelings to cloud his judgment. He didn't rush; he _contemplated._

When Peter asked him to return to New York at the airport in Bogota, he had almost said yes. The word had been on his lips, but he hadn't uttered it. It was an emotionally charged moment, and he knew better than to make any snap decisions that could affect both of their lives in an undetermined way.

He'd had a lot to contemplate the past few months.

He had replayed the Burke's invitations to return several times in his mind; had they given their words adequate thought? Had they, like he had so often done, acted on impulse instead of reason? They may be glad he was alive and even happy to have him back in their lives in some capacity, but back in their city, their _home_? Uncle Nathan in Paris was quite a different thing than Uncle Nathan across town. He wanted to accept their offer, but he had to be sure. Just because he wanted it didn't make it the right thing to do, for him or the Burkes. It wasn't that simple.

His relationship with Peter had been complicated from the beginning; need-based on his side and exploitative on Peter's. It had been set up that way, their arrangement. But Peter reached out to him, showed concern for his well-being. He treated him like a friend and not just a CI; he even welcomed him into his home. To Peter, it was a common courtesy, a kindness shown to someone with no ties, no family of his own. But it stirred in Neal a need he hadn't realized was there; the need to belong, to be a part of a family.

The friendship grew and changed over the years; sometimes good, sometimes strained. Peter could make him feel included in a way he had never felt before and then, at other times, more isolated than he had felt even in prison. They disappointed each other, either by actions or assumptions, words or deeds, with growing frequency. Either Neal really screwed up, or Peter assumed he had when he hadn't. They seemed at odds more often than not. In the end, Neal felt like an obligation; a job Peter been saddled with and had come to regret.

Neal vacillated between despair and resentment. He had struggled for some time before he realized the relationship could never be what he wanted it to be. Kellar had said it: he was con man conning himself. Mozzie, too, saw the futility of his efforts. No matter how much he wanted to belong he never really would; Neal Caffrey would always be a criminal and Peter Burke would always be the FBI. That was the reality of the situation. Since he couldn't change the reality, he decided to change the situation. _To change everything._

He became Nathan Clay in name, but it had taken months to discover who that really was. He cut himself off from his old life and didn't allow new emotional entanglements; he had enough old ones to sort through. He took himself apart, piece by piece, scrutinizing his motivations and evaluating his actions. He didn't avoid hard questions or the ugly truths. He profiled himself the way he profiled his marks. But instead of finding ways to exploit the weaknesses he found, he found ways to sure them up.

Why did he learn from some mistakes and yet repeat others time and time again? Why was the concept of trust, of trusting and being trusted, something he strived for and against simultaneously? Why did he sabotage positive relationships and chase after unhealthy ones? Why was his first instinct to a painful situation to run from it? He still didn't know all the answers, but he did better understand his failings. With that knowledge, he developed strategies to help offset them. Only after this time of adjustment had he let Mozzie know he was alive and well and living as Nathan Clay.

Nathan Clay, although technically an alias, wasn't someone he pretended to be. He was who he had _grown_ to be and was still _becoming._ He had reset his life and was determined not to repeat past mistakes, in life or love. He'd done well. Working in the art business offered enough temptations to help build his resistance, but not so much that he'd slipped into old habits. After the trip to Venezuela, he'd been a little worried. The con was Neal Caffrey's drug of choice and as Nathan Clay, he had quit cold turkey. His work on Alberto Cordero had been glorious; he had forgotten the rush, the pure exhilaration. It had been so much fun that he worried that the next time Mozzie presented an _opportunity too good to pass up,_ as he called them _,_ he wouldn't be able to. But when it happened, and it always did at least once a month, he hadn't been tempted. Conning for the good guys was one thing; becoming a criminal again was not an option.

The other temptation the trip created was to reach out to Peter Burke; that temptation he had not been able to withstand. After the first call, there had been a second. Before he had made the third, Cordero's man offered him a short-term job in the States. That, he decided, was an _opportunity too good to pass up_. The third time he talked to Peter after leaving South America was on his doorstep. The look on his face had been priceless.

Peter didn't stir when the CNA arrived with his medication, and a cup of vanilla pudding, just after three a.m. He swallowed the pill and gulped down a sip of water. Before she could leave, he reached over and gripped her arm, speaking quietly.

"The nurse from before said that there were notations about Agent Burke in my folder; is that true?"

She glanced in Peter's direction; eyebrows raised, then back to Neal. "We often make notes of things about patient care-likes and dislikes, family requests."

"Overbearing visitors?"

She smiled, "I don't think Agent Burke is overbearing, just concerned."

"Can I see the notes?"

"Of course," She said, "You have the right to look at any of your records. Do you want them now or can it wait until morning?"

"Now, if you don't mind."

She returned a few minutes later with a file and handed it over. He thanked her and with a glance at Peter to confirm his unconscious status, opened it.

A card with Peter's cell phone number was attached to the top of the folder with a clip. He removed it and flipped it over. It was Peter's bureau card. Mostly medical information, Neal skimmed through the notes for personal notations. Peter had been listed as the primary contact and had given medical information via telephone before Neal even arrived at the hospital. References to the patient's _agitated state upon arrival_ made his face burn with embarrassment. _Disoriented and paranoid, desperate to leave_ were the words used. He had no memory of the events, but apparently efforts to calm him failed; staff had to sedate him before assessing his injuries. Further down the page, references to Peter's demand to stay in the ICU was noted, followed by the statement from the attending ICU nurse:

 _Even though the policy does not allow overnight visitors, the presence of Agent Burke keeps the patient calm. It is in the best interest of the patient to waive the rules in this instance_.

Peter's relationship to the patient was listed as _close friend_.

Peter had followed every rule Nathan Clay had set before him. He had abided by the no contact rule after he'd contact him in Paris. He'd accepted, albeit, after the instinctive pushback, the support only role his terms of service had demanded. He had come when Neal needed him and had refused to leave him. He had been away from his job, and family, for two days. He had been the very definition of a friend, no matter what dictionary you chose to use.

 _Whatever makes you happy is what I want you to do._

There had been no _except_ , _but_ or other caveat. They were the words of a friend and not a handler; motivated by concern and not a sense of responsibility.

 _Friendship._ That was what his decision came down to. Not how people would respond to his reappearance, what they might whisper or think about him. It was about his friendship with the man across the room from him and the best way to keep that friendship intact. Was coming back the right thing to do or was phone calls and bi-annual visits the best way to keep their friendship secure?

Peter had changed and so had he, but had they changed enough? Would closer, extended contact cause them to revert to old form? Neal closed the folder, placing it on the bedside table for staff to retrieve on their next visit. He had a lot to think about, but he had time to do it. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Peter's snoring.


	19. Chapter 19

_Thanks to all for reading and reviewing. :)_

 **Chapter Nineteen**

Elliott took his coffee from the young lady behind the café counter and moved to the low bar against the wall to add his customary two cremes and two sugars. His has time in Philadelphia, only supposed to have been a trip down and back, had turned instead into a two day event. Fortunately there was no one waiting for him at home and he always had a go bag in the trunk in case something unexpected occurred. And the unexpected had occurred.

The plan that had been put in place to track the shipments had worked perfectly. Information had been gathered, photos taken, and routes documented in three separate states. Dozens of agencies had been working round the clock to process all the information that was streaming in, hundreds of man hours invested in creating the net that would, in time, close in on one of the biggest drug operations on the East Coast. Even if the Philadelphia excursion were a bust, the operation was success; setting the stage for the biggest win of his career.

But due to the events at the Gallery, the Philadelphia excursion had been anything but a bust. It was providing information on a whole different level; an inside source. He would have never thought, when he gave the word to storm the gallery, that it would be a move forward and not a step back. Elliot, not wishing to truncate the operation unless absolutely necessary, had ignored Agent Burke urgings to move in sooner. He had waited for Clay to give the signal. However, if he hadn't stalled and had gone in when Burke told him to Clay would have walked out of the gallery on his own steam on not been rolled out on a gurney. His delay in taking action said something unflattering about his character; Clay's lack of delay in taking action said a lot about his. Elliot hadn't had time to read through any files about Neal Caffrey but the brief summation he had read in his personnel file didn't do him justice, nor did the tidbits of additional information Agent Singleton had given him. Going to Venezuela to save the life of a friend was one thing; taking a bullet for a total stranger was something else altogether.

The Task Force needed Nathan Clay to sign his statement and Elliot wanted an excuse to see him anyway, so he volunteered to handle that detail before he returned to New York. After checking out of the hotel Saturday morning, Elliot grabbed breakfast and visited the hospital. As he proceeded through the lobby on the way to the elevators, he saw Agent Burke. Burke, looking a little worse for the wear, was on his way to get coffee. Elliot wasn't surprised by his haggard appearance; the man had been at the hospital, around the clock, for the past two days. Elliot had logged a lot of hours as well, but he'd at least rented a room and got some sleep at night. Elliot doubted the coffee would do much to help the sleep deprived look in the older man's face. After their initial greetings, Elliott accompanied him to the coffee bar in the lobby and picked up a cup of his own. It also gave him a chance to talk to Burke alone.

"How's Clay?" Elliott asked. "Is he up to signing some paperwork for me?"

"He's doing good, it's just going to take time for him to heal," Burke replied. "What kind of paperwork do you have for him?"

"I need him to sign his statement," Elliot took the top off this coffee cup and added sugar and creamer. "You know, the one that was taken regarding his involvement in the events at the Lucian Gallery two nights ago?" He replaced the top, pressing it down to seal it. "I took the liberty of typing it out for him but I need his signature to file it."

"I see," Burke seemed amused. "So exactly how did Mr. Clay explain what he was doing at the gallery during a drug deal?"

"Strictly a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time," Elliot said matter-of-factly. "He's looking for investment property in Philadelphia and knew the gallery was on the market. He was on his way to dinner, saw there were people in the gallery, and thought he'd pop in and check out the space."

"That's pretty lame," Burke responded. "I wouldn't buy that story if he were my suspect."

"Well, he _isn't_ your suspect, and we don't have to sell the story, Agent Burke, we just need it in the file. If anyone gets curious as to why Clay wasn't charged, we can tell them we investigated and cleared him." He explained. "The statement is his explanation, and when we checked into his background, there was nothing to tie him to Cordero or any criminal activities." He smiled. "Nathan Clay is as clean and upstanding as they come."

"How did you justify the raid on the gallery?" Burke asked. "What's the story for that?"

"Edwin Thomas." Elliot forgot that Burke knew virtually nothing about the case. At Burke's blank look, he expanded. "He is a person of interest to the Philadelphia Task Force; they already had surveillance on him. They got a tip from one of their undercover operatives that something might be happening, and they followed up on it."

Elliot had been surprised that Burke hadn't asked more questions over the course of the past two days, especially concerning a potential case against his kidnappers. Elliot had expected, once Clay was out of danger, for Burke to show up at Taskforce headquarters, wanting a chance to crack them himself. But it hadn't happened. In fact, it had been the polar opposite. Burke had expressed little interest in how the things were developing, what information was being garnered or what deals were being made. He hadn't called Elliot for a progress report even once. The only time Elliot had spoken with him was when he called Burke for status updates on Clay. Burke would ask then about the progress, but it seemed more a customary inquiry than actual interest. Agent Burke's attention had been focused on the well-being of Clay to the exclusion of everything else.

"Then he's really in the clear, isn't he?" Burke asked.

"Yes, completely in the clear," he motioned to the café tables near the large window. The view was the front parking level and provided nothing of interest to watch. But at least, it allowed some natural light into the otherwise artificial space. "Can we sit a minute before going up?"

He guessed the tone of his voice alerted Burke that he had something to discuss that he didn't want to discuss upstairs; Burke nodded and led the way.

"It's been a productive day and a half," Elliot said, taking a seat, "we've already got some good intel and expect that to only increase. I've shared some of that with you already but there is some other information that has surfaced that I thought you'd want to know about."

"Okay." Burke's tone was curious as he followed suit, took a seat, and waited for more. Elliot guessed Burke thought it had to do with his kidnapping; but it did not.

"Do you remember that thing that went down here last week, that all the chatter was about?" Elliott could tell by the narrowing of Burke's eyes that he was no longer curious but marginally concerned. He sat his coffee on the table; his eyes never leaving Elliott's face.

"Yes, what about it?" Elliott wondered if Burke already knew what he was about to tell him. _He knows how I am,_ Clay had stated.

"Javier Mendez-the man Clay took the bullet for-told us it started with a very hush-hush, high-end auction."

"An _auction_?" The auction was news to Agent Burke. He might have suspected Clay had been involved in whatever had happened, but he apparently didn't know exactly what it was. As a man of many talents, Clay could have been responsible for almost anything. "Well, I'll be _damned_ ," Burke said almost under his breath.

"It was put on by Cordero and some other allied South American families. Art was bought and sold, and the auction setup was also used to move money into accounts as a part of the payoffs the task force got wind of."

"Other than buying some allegiance, any idea who was paid off and why?"

"Bribery can be used for two very different reasons." Elliott supplied.

Agent Burke, an experienced SAC of White Collar Division of the FBI, picked up immediately. "To keep mouths shut or to open them."

"Exactly," Elliott responded. "We think that is how Cordero set up the trap for Mendez to walk into during Clay's drop-off-he paid the right people on both sides of the fence."

"We weren't the only one's running covert operations." Burke mused.

"No, we weren't," Elliott agreed. "You know, getting back to the auction," he paused. "that clears up something that I had been wondering about."

"And what was that?"

"I had a hard time understanding why Cordero's people would recruit a Gallery Owner to do a drug run," Elliott continued, "But it makes sense now; he didn't recruit a gallery owner to run drugs, he recruited a Gallery Owner to run an auction."

Running an auction, Elliott was sure, was one of Nathan Clay's areas of expertise.

"Any idea what items were auctioned?" Burke inquired. "Was the art stolen?"

Elliott shook his head. "No details. Task Force is looking into it as well as the FCC. Mendez says the word on the inside was that transactions were in excess of _fifty million dollars_." He studied Agent Burke. "Was Nathan Clay in Philadelphia last week?" He knew he had been but was curious as to what Burke would say.

"Doesn't matter if he were," he replied. "or if he was involved in the auction. His agreement for immunity covers any activities associated with Cordero from the time he left Paris two weeks ago."

Elliott laughed; Friend obviously trumped Agent where Nathan Clay was concerned, and he had expected nothing less. He knew the truth about their relationship; who Nathan Clay had been. Burke had risked his career for the man, and Clay had risked his life for his friend; their devotion to one another was unquestionable. Career Criminal and Federal agent. Right or wrong, Elliot respected, even envied, their friendship. "You don't have to worry; nothing so far connects him to it and even if it did, as you said, he has immunity." He stood up. "Plus, he's the boy wonder of the DEA right now; everyone wants to shake his hand for what he's done, not arrest him." He stood up. "Ready to go up?"

"Yeah, I'm ready" Burke said, "but for goodness sake, don't make that _boy wonder_ remark where he can hear it; he's too sure of himself for his own good as it is."

"I won't," Elliott replied, "But I really am curious about one thing."

"Just one?" Burke chuckled, getting to his feet. "And what's that?"

"What exactly is the commissions on a fifty million dollar auction?"

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Nathan Clay was sitting on the edge of the bed when Elliot entered with Agent Burke. His outfit was not his usual stylish apparel, but it wasn't hospital issue, either. He wasn't connected to any of the machines in the room, but he still had an IV port attached to the inside of he left elbow. He was pale and in need of a shower, but still looked much better than he had the last time Elliot had spoken to him. He still remembered the way his heart had sunk at the sight of Clay, lying still in the floor of the gallery.

Elliot detected the briefest look of disappointment on Clay's face when he and Agent Burke entered the room, but it quickly disappeared. His smile of greeting seemed relaxed but there was a sheen of sweat on his pale face, and his right leg was bouncing restlessly. Clay must have caught his gaze on the offending limb because the leg stilled immediately, his eyes never leaving Elliot's face and his smile never wavering.

"Agent Elliot," he greeted. "Peter tells me things turned out okay in spite of the little deviation from the plan."

"Yes, they have." Elliot proceeded to give a brief rundown on how things had shaped up over the past forty hours. Javier Mendez had knowledge about the Burke kidnapping as well as many other crimes. "He held a high position in the organization and is willing to provide information to us in exchange for protection," he paused. "He's asked about you several times. He's still in a state of disbelief that you took a bullet for him."

The pleased look that had settled on Clay's face during the discourse faded somewhat at the mention of his actions regarding Mendez. "I only meant to push him out of the way," he clarified quietly. "Taking a bullet for him wasn't my intention."

"Either way, you did, and he's grateful." Clay self-effacement was somewhat unexpected: he'd thought there would have been a least some savoring of his heroic moment. Instead, the topic seemed to make him uncomfortable. Elliot moved on to his reason for the visit. "Are you up to signing some paperwork or do you want me to catch up with you on Monday?" He glanced at Agent Burke. "If you'll be at the Waldorf, I can just stop by…."

"He'll be at my house," Burke interceded. "He's staying with us for-"

"a few _days_ ," Clay finished a quick look in his friends direction. His eyes came back to Elliot. "But I can sign now. What exactly am I signing?"

"Your statement," Elliot removed a file from his case, opened it and handed it to Clay. "You were questioned about your involvement in the incident at the gallery as soon as you regained consciousness, and this is your official statement." Clay looked over the typed statement, and when he finished, he looked up with a skeptical look on his face. "Wrong place, wrong time? That's never worked for me before. Will anyone actually believe that?"

"I told him I wouldn't," Burke commented with a smile, "But he said it doesn't matter. No one is looking to poke holes in your story; they just need one on file to close your part in the case."

"Have a pen?" Elliot provided him one. Clay pulled the table closer, placed the statement on in. Signing, however, presented a problem. The attempt to move the right arm across his body brought a wince of pain to his face. After a brief hesitation, he put the pen in his left hand and signed. "Is that all you need?"

"Yeah," Elliot was surprised at how good the signature looked. Anything he wrote with his left hand would be illegible, "for now. We'll need to follow up with the team once we're back in New York, you know, put your Terms of Service to rest. But this takes care of the taskforce's paperwork." Elliot had noticed the tremor in Clay's hand as he signed the statement and handed back the pen. Now sweat beads were beginning to visibly form on his forehead. "Are you alright?" Elliot asked. "You aren't looking too good."

"I'm fine." It was clearly not true, but the question had brought slight color to his pale face. "I'm just ready to get out of here. Peter," he said, "Can you see what's holding things up?" His tone was impatient. "They said an hour ago they were starting my discharge."

Agent Burke responded by pointing at one of the several information sheets on the wall. "Discharge Procedures," he began, "Skip down to the third bullet: _Please be patient during the discharge process. The staff is preparing orders, discharge instructions and arranging for prescriptions and follow-up appointments. The process can take several hours."_

"Several hours? I'm not waiting hours." Irritation crept into Clay's voice. "They need to get in here and get this thing out or…" He paused as he seemed to debate pulling it out himself, but since his right arm wouldn't cooperate, it wasn't an option. That he'd considered it spoke to his level of frustration. "I'll leave with it in."

Agent Burke moved closer, a concerned look on his face as Clay's frustration, as well as his voice level, rose higher. "Impatient much?"

The question, asked in a calm way, had the same effect on Clay. "Sorry." His voice volume lowered but still held an edge. "I just don't like being cooped up; it's getting on my nerves." The grimace on his face as he shifted positions indicated that pain, and not just impatience, might be a contributing factor to his irritability.

"Have you had your pain medication?" Agent Burke had come to the same conclusion. He glanced at his watch. "It was due at eleven. Did they bring it?"

"They brought it," Clay's eyes fell to the bedside table. A small white paper cup sat there. Burke followed his gaze, and so did Elliot. Inside was a large oblong white tablet.

"You didn't take it," Burke didn't seem surprised, but his stare demanded an explanation.

"I planned to take it, _eventually_ ," Clay insisted, "I just want to stretch it as far as I can," Clay justified. "See how long I can go between doses." He dropped his voice. "I don't _like_ taking it, Peter."

"I know you don't," Burke's tone was understanding, "and hopefully you won't need it long. But right now, you still _do_." He picked up the cup and handed it to Clay. There was a hint of defiance in Clay's eye's although the sweat on his forehead testified to the fact that Burke was speaking the truth. When he didn't reach out to take the cup, Burke continued. "You made it five and a half hours this time," Burke reminded him. "Next time, you can make it six."

After only a second or two of hesitation, Clay relented and took the proffered cup. Elliot guessed it was the mind clouding effects that Clay didn't like; he was one who would value his ability to think clearly over all other skills. The doubtful look he sent in Elliot's direction told him he especially didn't want clouded senses with a stranger in the room. Elliot took the cue.

"I need to get this back to the Task Force," He said, picking up the statement from the table, "and then head toward home myself." He opened his case and tucked the folder safely away. "I'm glad you're doing well, Mr. Clay. I will be in touch with you both later next week." He nodded at Burke, but before he exited, turned back Clay, who still held the paper cup containing his medication in his hand. He wasn't about to take it until Elliot was gone. "There's one more thing you can help me with," he said. "I have a hypothetical question for you, something I'm curious about and think you can probably answer for me."

"Okay," Clay answered hesitantly. "What is your _hypothetical_ question?"

"I'm sure this is well within your area of expertise," he began with a mirthful look at Agent Burke. "What is the going rate to run an auction?" Clay's lack of reaction was impressive; especially since he was in pain and not at the top of his game. "I mean a high-end one with lots of international bidders?"

"What kind of items are to be offered in this _hypothetical_ auction?" His innocent _, just trying to help_ look would have convinced anyone who didn't already know better. "Property, collectibles….?"

"Art," Elliot answered in amusement. "And not _are to be_ auctioned, but _were_ auctioned. Here. A week ago." Elliot knew by the look in the blue eyes that Clay knew that he _knew_ , and it wasn't a look of concern or fear. Clay might not have relished the role of hero earlier, but this he seemed to enjoy.

"So, not hypothetical at all," He replied, eyes twinkling. "It depends. Sometimes it's a flat fee and other times, a percentage of the appraised value of the items offered. Then of course," The mischief in his eyes was joined by an equally mischievous smile. Elliot was happy that he, in his own way, had provided Clay with some pain relief via distraction. "if you want your auctioneer to be _motivated_ to drive the selling prices higher, a percentage of the auction's revenue on _top_ of their fee usually does the trick."

"I see." There was little question as to which of the options had been true in this case. "What if the auction pulled in say, fifty million dollars or so," Elliot said. "What would an auctioneer clear on something like that?"

" _Hypothetically_ ," Clay stressed the word, "It's hard to say. There's a lot of factors to take into consideration, but it would likely be _quite a sum_."

"Enough to build an impressive expense account, I'd imagine?" Burke's question sounded serious but his expression was anything but. He looked like he was struggling to keep a straight face.

Clay didn't even try; his smile was immediate. "Absolutely." Whatever the inside joke was, Elliot wasn't privy to it.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

As impatient as Neal had been to get out of the confines of a hospital room that seemed to grow smaller with each passing moment, as the discharge instructions were read to him he begin to fear that a different kind of trap was being sprung.

Weeks. He would not be able to fly to Paris for at least six weeks. He had expected there would be a time of convalesces, a period when he wouldn't be able to drive or travel long distances. He knew he'd have to placate the Burke's by spending a couple of days with them. But then he would transition back to the Waldorf and head back to Paris the following week. The suite was already booked; he'd originally planned two weeks in New York. Having to stay an additional week wouldn't be ideal, but he could manage. But five extra weeks?

He wasn't sure, but his breath might have caught in his throat at her words; he could feel Peter's eyes on him immediately. He'd taken the pain medicine a few minutes earlier and it was already kicking in, hampering his ability to control his reactions as well as he normally could. There had been a split second lag between his shock at her words and his effort to hide it. Of course for Peter, a split second was enough. There was a mixture of amusement and pity in his eyes. Neal didn't appreciate either one, and he was sure the look he gave Peter indicated as much.

Putting his attention back to the nurse, he calmly made his case for the need to return to France much sooner than six weeks. He had a business to run and could not be away for such an extended period of time. She didn't care about his business difficulties or the appointments he had to keep and said as much; about thirty seconds into her explanation as to what changes in air pressure could do to a damaged lung, Neal held up his hand in surrender. Argument stifled, she continued with the discharge procedures, going through pages of instructions on post-operative care in record time. She referred to the instructions the respiratory therapist had already gone over with him and then sped through a list of symptoms that would indicate that complications had arisen. If they occurred he should either call the hospital or seek immediate medical assistance, depending on the severity of the symptom he was experiencing. The next statement caused his stress level to increase again; he'd need to stay with someone for at least a week.

"Do you have family or….." she started, but Neal didn't hear the rest of the question.

Her voice faded into the background as he debated her words. He'd agreed to go to Peter's house for a couple of days, but how could he handle staying with the Burke's for a week? A week would test his fortitude in a way he feared he was in no condition to withstand. He needed time, and space, to think things through. He'd only spent a day and a half in the presence of the Burkes, unconscious for most of it, and had been reduced to tears twice. Maybe Mozzie would be an option? Somehow he doubted anyone would be happy with that choice, especially Mozzie.

The whole point of coming back, other than to help Peter with his case against the Cordero family, was to ease himself back into the situation and see how things went. Even at his best, he had only felt secure committing to a two-week stay in New York. The first week he'd be focused on the task at hand. The second week he had planned to spend more time with Peter; to see how Peter responded to Nathan Clay and to see how Nathan responded to Peter Burke. He'd expected a few lunches, talking over a case or two, and maybe a couple of family dinners at the Burke house. These excursions would be launched from the safety of the Waldorf. He hadn't planned to be at the Burke house for any extended periods of time. Of course, he hadn't planned on being shot, or his two-week stay in New York turning into six, or of having Mozzie coming along for the ride. So much for his plans. Of course, he consoled himself, all of these instructions were just suggestions. He would be an exceptional patient for a couple of days, promise to call if he had any problems, and return to his penthouse suite.

Caught up in his own thoughts, Neal had tuned out nurse's words. When he didn't respond to her question, Peter did so himself. His eyes were on Neal and not on the nurse as he spoke. "He's welcome to stay with me until he's able to travel."

Peter had adjusted his wording from will be staying with me to is welcome to stay with me. Neal guessed he had picked up on his growing feeling of unrest at the way his immediate future was suddenly being dictated by others instead of chosen by him. It was not his physical reaction, but his mental distraction, that had given him away this time. He had to get off the pain medication. Still, Neal appreciated Peter's attempt to ease his tension; to make an offer instead of an order, to ask instead of assuming.

"I'll stay a few days." Until he could travel? No way in hell. He took a steadying breath. The situation was what it was; the extra time could serve a valuable purpose. His fear was that distance, indeed, had made the heart grow fonder and closer contact over time might erode that feeling. Before, time had weakened, not strengthened his friendship with Peter. If things were destined to go back to the way they had been before, he'd see signs of it in six weeks. "After that, I'll make other arrangements."

"Another month at the Waldorf?" There was a hint of teasing in Peter's voice now, possibly another attempt to put Neal at ease. "You could probably buy a small country for what that would cost you." Peter hadn't had an opportunity to ask about the auction; the respiratory therapist had entered the room just after Agent Elliot had exited. But Neal knew he was dying of curiosity. His look, one of reluctant admiration, brought a small smile to Neal's face.

"I could, but since there aren't any on the market in the vicinity of New York, I'll see if Mozzie has an alternate option at a more reasonable rate."

The nurse listened with a look of pained patience, not pleased to have had her script interrupted. When she again had their attention, she provided information on his follow up with Dr. Shaw in his Philadelphia Office and informed him that his prescriptions could be picked up from the hospital pharmacy. The nurse allowed Peter to initial the paperwork indicating that Neal had been informed of all the information.

"Someone will be up shortly to transport you to your car, Mr. Clay," she said. "Please call if you have any questions."

For once, there weren't delays. Peter had just gathered up their possessions, packed them as best he could into the travel case Elizabeth had brought the day before, the pillow and blanket tucked underneath the handles when the intern arrived. Peter, with bags in tow, went to bring the car around to the pickup area. Neal didn't like the idea of being rolled out in a wheelchair but knew he'd never make it out on his own steam. The walk around the hall with the therapist earlier had left him exhausted and in pain and just having been upright for the past two hours had equally drained him. He was weak; it would take time to build back his strength. It looked like he'd have plenty of it.

The intern held the chair steady, and he awkwardly lowered himself into it. Sitting in the chair and being pushed down the hall by a stranger stirred a twinge of panic in him. He guessed it had to do with the lack of control when he already felt as if his life had suddenly been hijacked.

Peter pulled under the awning in Neal's black BMW. He looked pleased with Neal's look of surprise.

"Nice ride." The intern, clearly impressed, rolled the chair up close to the passenger door. After locking the wheels, he opened the car door and helped Neal inside. The transition was painful, and Neal was reluctantly appreciative of the pain medication still in his system.

After he was settled, and the door was closed, he looked at Peter questioningly.

"I had an agent drive my car back yesterday," Peter explained with a smile. "I figured this one would be more comfortable for your ride home. I even turned the seat warmer on for you."

"Thoughtful of you," Neal mused. "So, what do you think of it?"

"A bit rich for my taste," he returned, "but I guess it suits you just fine, being a successful businessman and all."

"You know, image is everything. Especially in my business."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Peter had looked forward to the hour and a half drive with Neal; looked forward to some lively discussion. Of all the things he'd missed about Neal Caffrey, that had been at the top of the list. He'd also missed the triumphant look on his face when he pulled off something unbelievable and unexpected. Funny how that had once annoyed Peter to no end. That was what the auction had been: unexpected and unbelievable. He knew that since Agent Elliot had brought it up, Neal would enjoy recounting how it had all come to pass. He wouldn't even have to pepper his story with allegeds or hypotheticals. Although the auction's legalities were questionable-Peter doubted that accurate provenance had been a requirement of sale-Nathan Clay had taken care of that when he'd gotten his get out of jail free card. Or, as he had put it, his don't go to jail at all card. That topic, with all its maneuvering, would have provided some entertaining conversation for the trip.

Of course, the other topic Peter would like to hear about was where Neal was on the idea of a possible move. Peter felt the reasons he'd consider it were clear enough; he missed people in his life. It was his misgivings he wanted to know more about; probably because he was certain he was one of them. He had treated Neal unfairly in the past; he could understand why he'd have doubts about coming back, especially if he thought Peter hadn't changed. Neal had asked him not to question him on the subject and he wouldn't. Still, the trip to New York was long, and he'd hoped Neal would take him up on his offer and talk it over with him. Neal needed to know that Peter regretted his past mistakes, had learned from them, and would not repeat them.

As it turned out, the trip provided little opportunity for conversation, lively or otherwise. The nurse had warned that Neal's energy would be quickly depleted, and she hadn't exaggerated. After a brief discussion on the bells and whistles of Neal's rental-he did assure Peter that he hadn't actually purchased a one hundred and forty thousand dollar vehicle-his head had rested against the back of the seat as if he could no longer hold it up on his own. Peter had left the pillow Elizabeth had bought at the hospital gift shop in the back seat in case Neal needed it, and he did. He reached back and pulled it forward.

"Here," he said, "Lean your seat back and sleep if you can. It's a long ride."

"Maybe just for a little while," Neal said, glancing sheepishly at Peter. No argument meant Peter had correctly read the exhaustion in Neal's face. He adjusted his seat and put the pillow between his head and the window. "Medicine makes me sleepy anyway."

"Then sleep," Peter said. "I'll wake you when we get home." Neal's eyes were already closed, but Peter saw a small smile cross Neal's face at his words. He didn't last five minutes before he had conked out, head against the window.

Peter turned the radio on and settled in for the drive. Neal occasionally shifted, his brow furrowing in discomfort, but for the most part, he seemed to be resting well. Peter thought back over the snatches of conversation they had had over the past week, and especially the more open ones during the hospital stay.

As the man who had sent Neal to prison, and later became his handler, Peter had exercised considerable control over Neal's life. Since Nathan Clay had returned to New York, he had reminded Peter more than once that he was not his CI or his responsibility; they were just friends working together. That was what Neal wanted, but he hadn't known if Peter would accept that. Peter was a control freak and Neal knew it. He hadn't just come to New York to test himself, Peter realized, he had come to test him as well.

Arriving at the house, Peter kicked himself; he should have had El move his car onto the street. That way he could have pulled into the garage and shortened Neal's trip to the house considerably. As it was, they would have to park on the street, and Neal would have to make the walk up the sidewalk to the house. Peter reached over and touched Neal gently on the shoulder.

"We're here." Peter said, jostling his friend gently. "Rise and shine, Neal."

Neal awoke, a bit disoriented at first, looking around in confusion before remembering his situation. The movement seemed a bit painful.

"You alright?" Peter had asked at his discomfort.

"Yeah," Neal responded, "I'm fine. Just a little stiff."

"Hang on," Peter said, exiting the car. "I'll come around."

He reached the passenger side and opened the door. Neal awkwardly accepted his help extracting himself from the front seat of the car. He was unsteady on his feet, and Peter caught the look of concern as he surveyed the distance from the car to the house. Before Peter could pose the question, Neal answered it.

"I can make it; just go slow." Peter looped his arm under Neal's good shoulder and grasped him firmly around the waist. Neal accepted his help without protest. Slowly, they made their way up the walk.

Neal was breathing heavily by the time they reached the doorstep and Peter could tell he was supporting more of Neal's weight. The relief at reaching the door faded at the sound of raised voices from inside. Mozzie's voice Peter recognized, as well as the voice of Clinton Jones. The female, with a distinctive accent, was new to him, but he had a pretty good idea to whom it belonged. He and Neal exchanged looks of alarm. Pale as a ghost and almost out on his feet, Neal didn't look up to whatever was waiting on the other side of the door. Peter wasn't looking forward to it, either. The bridge crossing had come sooner than expected; Jones was not happy.

"It's okay," Peter said. "We're going straight through to the guest room; you stay there, and I will deal with them."

Peter's words evoked a change in Neal. Finding strength from somewhere, he pulled away, using his hand to dislodge gently Peter's grip on his waist. Still pale, the weariness on his face was replaced by determination. Now standing on his own, Neal met Peter's eyes steadily. "No, I'm good." He even managed a small smile. "I guess you're going to get to meet Elodie."

Amazed by the transformation, Peter put his hand on the door knob. "I'm looking forward to it." He lied.

The raised voices stopped almost instantly when Peter opened the door. Eight set of eyes drilled into the two men in the doorway.

"I'd say you look like hell, Caffrey," Clinton Jones was the first to speak, a look of anger on his face, "but you look pretty good for a dead man."


	21. Chapter 21

__Thanks everyone for reading, and for posting reviews. I appreciate each and every one. I also thank those of you who are following this story. Fifteen inches of snow here in the south; been homebound for three days. Tough on work but good for story writing :)__

 ** **Chapter Twenty One****

"Jones," Neal's voice was surprisingly calm as he stepped into the Burke's living room in front of Peter. "Dante, Elodie _."_ His tone and eyes softened at her name. Peter could understand why: Elizabeth's description hadn't done her justice. Leave it to Neal to have a tall, blonde French model as his assistant. "What a nice surprise." Neal's tone seemed sincere, but Peter knew it was anything but a nice surprise. Peter reached back and closed the door; everyone began speaking at once.

"What the _hell,_ Peter?" Jones tore his angry eyes from Neal to glare at Peter instead. "Neal Caffrey alive and you didn't think to mention it?"

"One week," Mozzie launched, "one week back with the suit and you're already shot, and I'm in the middle of a _suit convention_ …"

Elodie was rattling off a series of statements in French which Peter, of course, couldn't understand; except for a question ending with the words _Neal Caffrey_ ; her flashing eyes demanding an answer.

"I'm sorry, honey," That was Elizabeth, "I tried to get them to…"

" _Daddy!"_ Little Neal's high pitched excitement cut through the chaos of the room.

Not put off by the tension radiating from the adults, he ran to Peter and grabbed him around the knees, his little, upturned face covered with a smile of pure joy. The room went silent; everyone ashamed to have been behaving like two years olds in front of an actual two-year-old, who was, sadly, behaving better than they were.

Peter reached down and picked up his son, who proceeded to hug him around the neck, making the appropriate _umm-umm_ sound as he did so. "I miss you!"

"I missed you too, big guy," Peter answered with a smile of his own. Just feeling the little arms around his neck had brought his blood pressure down ten points. Little Neal pulled away, arms still loosely on Peter's shoulder, big brown eyes falling on Neal. His face grew serious, eyes widening at the sight of the shoulder sling.

"Unk Nay got a boo-boo?" Peter smiled at the look on Neal's face. He'd steeled up to face the angry hoard, but his namesake had brought a touch of color to his pale cheeks. "Yes," Peter replied, "Uncle Nathan got a _big_ boo-boo."

The little hand reached over, touching Neal on the shoulder."Okay, Unk Nay?"

Neal's eyes softened at the concerned look on the little face. "Yeah, Neal," he replied gently, "I'm okay." He was holding himself very straight; shoulders back and head high although Peter knew that posture had to be uncomfortable given his injury and the fact that the pain medicine had to be wearing thin. His eyes and voice remained amazingly steady. Nearly fainting at the door two minutes earlier, Peter had seen him rally for confrontation, and the transformation had been impressive.

But with that said, there was no denying his rumbled appearance, the sickly pallor of his skin or the dark circles under his eyes. His arm in a sling, he was clearly not well. However, only the two-year-old had voiced any concern for his well-being. Peter knew this fact did not escape his attention by the way he looked from Neal's concerned face to the irritated and angry ones across the room. His expression hardened, his jaw clenched and his tone sharpened. "Thank you for asking."

Mozzie picked up on the tone, and properly chastised, began to make his apology. "Sorry, Nathan," he began, "I was just upset, you know how I get…."

"Peter," Neal interrupted, "Give Dante the key the suite at the Waldorf."

Dante and not Mozzie; Peter assumed that was for Elodie's benefit. Here in the Burke's living room, the worlds of Neal Caffrey and Nathan Clay were colliding. Difficult under the best of circumstances, they were especially difficult now.

Neal's outfit had no pockets; Peter had put his things into his own for the trip. He shifted the little boy in his arms to one side and dug in his coat pocket. Extracting the key card, he held it out to Mozzie. He moved forward and accepted it, a questioning look at his friend.

"You can make it up to me by taking Elodie to the Waldorf," Neal announced calmly. "I have the Penthouse A Suite; there's more than enough room for both of you there. I'll call tomorrow and answer _all questions_." His voice dropped so that Peter and Mozzie were the only ones who could hear. "Please, Mozzie, get her _out of here_."

Mozzie read his friend instantly, "You got it. I'll call us a cab right now." He took out his phone, but Neal put his hand over it.

"No need," he said, "Bring our things in and take my rental; it's at the curb." Neal didn't want their departure delayed; the sooner Elodie was out of the house the better. It was one thing to explain how Neal Caffrey was alive; it was a different thing to explain who Neal Caffrey _was_. Mozzie understood. He put his phone away and turned to the tall blond behind him.

"Elodie," he said, extending his arm like a gentleman waiting to escort his lady. "Monsieur Clay has requested that we depart. He has graciously offered us his suite at the Waldorf, a five-star hotel in downtown Manhattan."

Elodie made no move to accept his invite, clearly unhappy with being dismissed in such a way, with little attention and less explanation from Nathan Clay. Neal stepped towards her, switching his language to French and his tone to conciliatory. His voice low, his eyes meeting her blue ones, he touched her arm gently, fingers trailing up her bare arm as he spoke. Jones roll his eyes; some things never changed, his expression said. Neal could flirt in any circumstance; even with one arm in a sling and in the middle of World War III. "Le spa est merveilleux, Elodie,"

Peter hadn't understood what Neal was saying, but he had watched the irritation fade from Elodie's face as he spoke, and at the word spa, a small smile played on her perfectly red lips. Apparently now more accepting of her dismissal, she kissed Neal, leaving an imprint of lipstick on his pale face. Reaching up, she wiped it away with her thumb, and leaning close to Neal's ear whispered, "Demain alors, Nathan." Peter felt his face flush; he didn't know if her words were seductive but anything spoken in French by someone looking like Elodie sounded seductive to him. With a cool look at Peter, she slipped her arm through Mozzie's extended one. The two of them swept out the door as if they were stepping out on the red carpet instead of the Burke's sidewalk. Their difference in height, and everything else as well, made them an odd couple indeed.

Jones had remained silent but no more. " _Uncle Nathan?"_ He spat, his eyes flashing in anger. Peter didn't think he'd go as quietly as Elodie had; no flirting or promise of a five-star spa was going to do the trick. Peter met Elizabeth's eyes, and reading his look, she stepped over and took Neal from his arms. What was going to transpire would likely not be suitable for impressionable young ears.

"Let's go get _Uncle Nathan's_ room ready," She said, meeting Neal's eyes. Peter picked up on her look and the inflection. She wanted to make it clear that Neal was, indeed Uncle Nathan and part of the family. She took their son from Peter's arms just as the front door opened; Mozzie had returned with their bags. Doubting the wisdom of keeping Elodie waiting, he set them down on the floor without evening entering the room, speaking quickly to Neal before departing. "Call me tomorrow, mon frère."

"I will," Neal replied, "thanks."

Mozzie closed the door and Elizabeth, with a look of encouragement at both Peter and Neal, crossed the room with Neal in tow exiting down the back hall in the direction of the Burke guestroom.

The minute she was out of sight, Jones continued. "From him," he nodded at Neal, "I could expect something like this, but from _you_? How could you do it, Peter, how could you go along with something like this?'' His voice was a mix of outrage and betrayal.

"It was pretty easy," Peter purposefully misconstruing his question moved past him through the living room. "Nathan Clay came to me with a plan to help take down the Cordero organization." Peter pulled out a chair from the dining table with a suggestive look in Neal's direction. Neal was taking great pains to appear fine, but Peter agreed with Jones' earlier assessment; he looked like hell. Neal didn't follow Peter into the dining area, but Jones did.

"I'm not talking about this Cordero thing, and you know it," Jones said, his voice lowered in anger. "I want to know how you sat there-" he turned, pointing an angry finger at Neal, still standing near the door, "-at his _funeral,_ looking all shell shocked, with your pregnant wife crying into your shoulder, and _lied_ to us."

Peter had known there would be hell to pay when his team found out; they had mourned for Neal too. He couldn't blame Jones for being pissed; he had been pissed too when he found out what Neal had done. But in all honesty, learning he was alive had trumped his anger. He hoped Jones would get there in time.

"Look, Clinton-" Peter began but Jones interrupted.

"Caffrey's a con. That's what he does; what he _is._ He conned us and was gone. But you?" His voice was bitter, "You dragged your ass around the office, acting heartbroken for months. You conned us _every day_ …."

"That's enough." Neal crossed the room with surprising ease, his tone stopping Jones mid-rant. Moving around the table and placing his hand on the back of a chair, he faced Jones. Peter had hoped he'd sit but wasn't surprised when he didn't. "Peter wasn't _conning_ you," he said evenly, his face impassive, "at the funeral or anywhere else."

Peter wasn't sure if the look on Jones' face was surprise at Neal's words or the authority in which he had spoken; he suspected the latter. Jones hadn't _met_ Nathan Clay, Peter reminded himself, and that was clearly who was now speaking. "He. Didn't. Know."

His words left no room for argument and Jones' bluster diminished in the face of the unexpected iron-jawed opposition. He looked at Peter, then back to Neal doubtfully. "He really didn't know?"

"I'm sitting right here," Peter commented wryly, feeling somehow left out of the conversation, "and am capable of-"

"No, he didn't," Neal responded, ignoring Peter's effort to rejoin. "No one knew, not even Mozzie."

When Neal had crossed the room, he had positioned himself as much between the two men as possible and Peter knew his objective was to divert Jones' anger from Peter to himself. He appreciated the gesture, but it was unnecessary. He was a Federal Agent _and_ married; he'd been on much hotter seats than this.

Jones seemed to contemplate that a second or two. He frowned, "Then how did you even-?" Jones' curiosity at how Neal had accomplished such a feat had now entered the scene.

"Details aren't important," Neal cut in curtly. "Caffrey's a con, remember? That's what he does; what he _is,"_ he quoted verbatim Jones' earlier remark, "and the best con of his life was his death. And to sell it, he had to let the only people who ever gave a damn about him think he was dead." His words implied a bitterness that wasn't present in his tone nor detectable in his face.

"Pretty poor way to reward people for caring about you if you ask me," Jones admonished. Peter guessed he had been put off by Neal's apparent lack of remorse for his actions. Peter, too, had been-there-done-that.

"Better than a with a bullet, or a _bomb_ ," Neal's retort was sharp, controlled tone slipping momentarily before it was recovered. "Which has historically been the way they're rewarded. My way was better." Peter guessed it was more than Jones' criticism that had set Neal off; there were small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Pain was beginning to be a factor.

"Clinton," Peter said, hoping to defuse the situation before escalation ensued, "You deserve answers, but this isn't the time. Look at him," he glanced reluctantly at Neal, knowing his words would not please him. "He's not up to this right now. Give it a couple of days, okay?"

Jones studied Neal a moment, then sighed at the truthfulness of Peter's statement. A stoic expression didn't disguise the fact that he looked like hell. "Just answer one thing, Peter, how long have you known? When did you find out he was alive?"

"it was over a year after the fact," Peter supplied, "he sent a clue by Mozzie," He glanced at Neal. "He knew I'd figure it out."

"So you've known he's Nathan Clay for almost a year and a half."

"No, I didn't know about Nathan Clay until about ten months ago," Peter clarified, "and I didn't _meet_ Nathan Clay until four months ago."

"Four months ago?" A look of understanding dawned in Jones' eyes. "Nathan Clay, French Art dealer." He looked at Neal. "This whole Cordero thing; it was you in Venezuela, wasn't it? You were the person on the inside Peter kept asking about."

"I went there to get Peter," Neal's voice was still steady but the knuckles of the hand grasping the chair were now white, "and to do that, I had to get close to Alberto Cordero."

Jones tone indicated the was wrapping up his visit. "And that lead to this undercover thing with the DEA." He shook his head, "I've got issues with what you did," he glanced at Peter, " _both_ of you did, but now isn't the time." He looked at Neal. "You should sit down before you fall down, Neal."

Concern had moved him from _Caffrey_ to _Neal_ , which Peter saw as progress.

Neal, of course, had to correct him. "Nathan."

"Nathan, yeah, that's what the notes said too, but the surveillance sounded just like _Neal Caffrey_ to me."

"What surveillance?" Peter asked, moving from behind the table to walk Jones to the door.

"From the warehouse in Hicksville," Jones explained. "There is so much information pouring in its been all hands on deck; I volunteered to help catalog surveillance."

"You recognized my voice."

"At first, I thought my ears were playing tricks on me," he recalled, studying Neal's pale face. "But at the end, when you were talking to Peter, I _knew_ it was you." He proceeded to the front door, followed by Peter. They reached the door, and Peter opened it.

"I'll see you at the office on Monday," Peter said.

Jones nodded, stepping out onto the stoop. "Yes, I'll see you Monday."

Before Peter could close the door, he turned back, looking past Peter to Neal.

"It's good to have you back, Neal."

The sentiment was sincere, and a mild look of surprise crossed Neal's face. Peter expected him to respond with a _double_ correction, but he didn't.

"Thanks," Neal replied instead. "It's good to be back." _Also_ sincere.

Peter took that, too, as progress.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The door had only just closed behind Jones when Elizabeth and little Neal emerged from the back hallway. Little Neal, toddling in front of her, went straight to Peter.

"I didn't think he'd ever leave," she said, looking from Peter to Neal. Jones had only been there fifteen minutes, but Peter had shared the same sentiment. "I have your room ready if you want to lie down. You look like you need to. I'll fix some dinner and call you when its ready."

Neal pulled the chair out from the table and lowered himself gingerly into it with a small grimace. "I think I'll just sit here a minute if you don't mind."

Peter knew it was because he didn't trust himself to make it the few steps into the bedroom. Sheer willpower, and stubbornness, had kept him on his feet.

"That was quite a welcome home party," Peter commented. "Your assistant knows Mozzie as Mr. Haversham, huh? Does she have any idea who you were before you were Nathan Clay?"

"Most people don't assume you _were anyone else_ before you were you," Neal reminded him a bit crossly, reaching up and wiping at the sweat that clung to his forehead.

"I take that as a no," Peter ignored his tone, choosing to attribute it to pain and exhaustion. Peter sat little Neal down at the small toddler table and put a tub of blocks in front of him. "Build me a house," he instructed, "a big one." He took a seat across from Neal, encouraging the conversation to continue.

"She's been a little curious about my past ever since Elizabeth showed up at the gallery," Neal confessed.

"I slipped and called him Neal, only once, though, I think," Elizabeth said from the kitchen. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay," Neal replied, "She occasionally fishes for information," He did a one shoulder shrug, "I ignore it, we move on. For the most part, we have a _no-questions-asked_ relationship."

"Well, it looks like she had questions now," Peter mused. "I'm surprised she hasn't had any before. I've checked out your Gallery's internet presence. The only person ever shown is Elodie, the gallery manager; the owner, Mr. Clay, seems to conveniently be somewhere else whenever a photo is snapped. Doesn't she find that strange?"

"I'm an artist, Peter, I can be eccentric and reclusive; it just adds to my charm."

"But how do you run a successful gallery if you avoid publicity?"

"I don't _avoid_ publicity," he argued, "Elodie handles the in front of camera stuff-the camera _loves_ her-and I give interviews, do a blog. I've been quoted several times in magazines and art columns. I even attend _selected_ functions and events." He gave a small smile, "I do pretty good in person; it's all about mannerisms and giving people what they expect to see. But a photo image is hard to manipulate, so I try to steer clear of photo ops."

He had a complicated life, Peter thought, even when he tried to simplify it. And by coming back to New York he had made it even more complicated; the cat was out of the bag. Jones knew about Nathan Clay and Elodie knew about Neal Caffrey. Jones would come around, Peter was certain, it would just take him some time to come to terms with things. Elodie, Peter didn't know enough about to hazard a guess at how she'd handle learning about Neal Caffrey. Elizabeth had her opinions about Neal and Elodie's relationship, but the woman _had_ flown all the way from France to see him, and his eyes had softened when he saw her standing in the Burke's living room.

"So what are you going to tell her?" At the look on Neal's face, Peter repeated the question. "Nevermind, it's been a long day." He stood up. "If you want to check out your room, I'll bring your things; you probably could use a little time to …rest." He'd almost said _regroup_ but caught himself in time.

Relieved at the reprieve, Neal nodded. "That sounds good, just for a little while." He got to his feet, and unsteady, grabbed the back of the chair. Peter reached over and took his elbow, offering further support if needed. "Can you make it?"

"Yeah," Neal said, a grimace of discomfort on his face. "Just a little dizzy there for a second. Like you said, it's been a long day."

"Well, all things considered, I think it could have gone much worse," Peter said. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm _not_ waiting six hours to take my pain medicine."


	22. Chapter 22

_Thanks for reviewing and sharing your thoughts on the progress, and direction, of this story. I think there will be two, maybe three, chapters after this one before I say Au Revoir to Bonjour Encore. :)_

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

"Peter," Elizabeth was shaking his shoulder, her voice low. "Peter, go check on Neal."

Trying to wake and regain cognitive function, Peter opened his eyes. Confused, he listened. There were no sounds from across the hall; the nursery was silent. "I don't hear anything," he mumbled, "He's already gone back to sleep, El."

"Not that Neal," she insisted, "The _other_ one. I heard him moving around a minute ago. Go down and make sure he's alright."

The other one.

In his exhausted state he had momentarily forgotten that the other Neal was in the downstairs guest room. He opened bleary eyes and looked at the clock beside his bed. Three-twenty four. Before Peter could either agree to go or protest further, he too heard a noise from the room directly beneath them. It wasn't a bump or movement this time; it was a low cry. Elizabeth's eyes widened and instantly awake, Peter got up.

"I'm on it," Peter said slipping on his shoes, "Don't worry, El, I'm sure he's okay. Probably just needs to take his medicine."

He descended the stairs, turned the corner and crept down the short hallway to the guest bedroom. The only light on downstairs was the light from the bathroom at the end of the hall. The light that streamed through the doorway illuminated his path to the guest room door. He hadn't heard any additional sounds during his trek and instead of just barging in, he paused in the hall and peeked through the open door. He hoped to see Neal still in bed, having fallen back asleep after whatever had awakened him. But it was not so.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair sticking up at odd angles in the dim light.

"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice when he saw Peter, "I didn't mean to wake you up. I didn't wake Neal, did I?"

"No," Peter stepped into the room, keeping his voice low as well. Something about the hour dictated it. Plus, the walls in his house were thin. He hadn't realized how thin until after Neal had been born. One excited exclamation during a ball game would wake him all the way upstairs. "If you wake Neal you'll know it. That kid has a set of lungs on him. You didn't wake me, either, you woke El." Before Neal could voice an apology Peter hurried on. "She sleeps light; she has ever since Neal was born. I swear he can turn over in the room next door, and it wakes her up." He paused. "She heard you moving around and thought you might need something."

"So she sent you to see," he said, his tone contrite, "I'm sorry, I don't need anything, I just…."

He stopped without finishing the statement, looking up at Peter in what seemed like, in the dimness of the room, mild distress. Peter knew the afternoon had to have been hard on Neal whether he'd acknowledged it or not. "Just what?" he encouraged, moving closer.

Neal met Peter's eyes briefly before looking away. "I'll be fine, Peter, please just go back to bed. I'm sorry I woke Elizabeth."

I'll _be_ fine, and not I _am_ fine. It was a distinction Peter picked up.

Peter knew they'd promised him space, but instead of giving it he did the exact opposite; he sat down on the bed beside him. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Even after hours of sleep, Neal still looked tired, and Peter guessed he would for some time. Whatever was bothering him, he wasn't ready to share. It could be any number of things; he had a lot going on. All Peter could do was offer, and continue to offer, to listen and leave it at that. Neal had not been particularly forthcoming as Neal Caffrey and was even less so as Nathan Clay. When Neal didn't answer his question, Peter let out a sigh.

"Look," He stood. "I'm here if you need me," It was almost three thirty in the morning, and he hadn't slept much, either. "I don't know what else to do but to keep telling you that." He moved towards the door. "See you in the morning."

"I had a dream," The words were spoken quickly as Peter stepped into the hall; he halted and turned. "about my….my funeral," Neal finished ruefully.

He'd had a nightmare. That was what had awakened him, what the low cry had been about. Having nightmares wasn't unusual in the Burke house; Peter had been awakened many times the same way, and so had Elizabeth. Especially since his kidnapping. It wasn't something he liked to talk about; they made him feel powerless and weak. Much the way he had felt in that small 10 x 10 cell in Venezuela. The only time he had talked about them was during his mandatory visits with the bureau psychiatrist, and then, only as briefly as possible.

"It's understandable," Peter moved back into the room, surprised that Neal would share such a personal detail. He wouldn't have in the past. But, as he kept telling Peter, things changed. "You've been through a lot, and this afternoon was tough. You were blindsided by both Jones and Elodie. I'd be surprised if you didn't have nightmares after that." Peter retook his seat on the bed beside Neal. "Want to talk about it?"

"I've had," Neal began, glancing sideways at Peter, "dreams since I came back to New York. Some more unsettling than other but I expected as much."

"You expected nightmares?" Peter didn't know why that bothered him so much, but it did. Neal's snort implied he hadn't liked Peter's choice of description.

"Dreams are just the subconscious mind sorting through things," he said, "and I have a lot to sort though. So yeah, I expected them. But this dream…." He met Peter's eyes. "I'm sorry you and Elizabeth had to go through that."

He'd dreamed about his funeral; Jones earlier comments had made an impression. If not on Neal, on his subconscious mind.

"It was hard," Peter didn't know what else to say. It had been more than hard; it had been terrible. "But we got through it."

"Because you had each other," Neal said. "that's what I kept telling myself; that it would be hard, but you'd get through it. But I know what its like to lose someone you care about, especially if you feel like it was somehow your fault; I'm sorry I put you through that."

Peter knew Neal's reasons for faking his death were complex and that escaping retribution from the Panthers had only been a part of it. He had always wanted to be free of the ties that bound him, but that desire alone was not enough to compel him to such action. Peter was sure he'd wanted that for a very long time and had passed up numerous opportunities to escape. He hadn't cut ties because he didn't want to leave the life he had found in New York.

His time in the city had been the most stable years of his life. It was the first time, Peter felt sure, Neal had ever had a home that meant more than four walls and a place to sleep; it was the first time he felt he belonged somewhere. As Elizabeth had correctly ascertained, that was what Neal had always wanted; to belong. Regardless of the constraints on his freedom, having found that in some way, he hadn't wanted to leave it behind. He had found a home in New York, a family of sorts.

But things had changed. His relationships became strained; he'd been disillusioned, and suffered betrayal and loss. Peter had worried about his state of mind after the whole Rebecca thing; he'd even turned down the promotion to stay close. Elizabeth, having already accepted her dream job, hadn't been thrilled with his decision and had gone to DC without him. After learning about her pregnancy, she had decided to return, but things remained strained.

Already believing his presence only complicated the lives of his friends, the added fear that the Panthers might strike at them to get to him was all it took to tip the scales. He let Neal Caffrey die, and he went thousands of miles away to start a new life as Nathan Clay. According to Elizabeth, not the life he wanted, but the life he could live with.

"I know you thought it was the right thing to do at the time." Peter's tone must have indicated that he thought that in retrospect, Neal now thought otherwise. But apparently that was not the case.

"Don't misunderstand," Neal said, his eyes meeting Peter's in the dimness. "I'm sorry you were hurt: you, Elizabeth, Moz, June, but I'm not sorry I did it; it was the right thing, Peter, it was the only way."

It was the only way that worked for Neal; Peter thought irritably, the only way he could extricate himself from his life as Neal Caffrey. He had thought Neal was expressing regret at his actions, but he wasn't; he was just sorry that his actions had caused pain. That regret, Peter knew, had been consistent from the very first phone call. He had never apologized for faking his death and was not doing so now.

Peter had come to terms with what Neal had done even though he didn't agree with it, but sometimes it still rankled. He guessed now it was more from pride than anything else; he still couldn't believe that Neal had pulled off something so complicated right under his nose and he'd never been the wiser. Would have never been the wiser had Neal not chosen to enlighten him.

"Like I said, we got through it, and once I knew you were alive…" Peter paused, looking at Neal curiously. "Did you always plan to let me know you were alive?"

"I planned to let Mozzie and June know, eventually."

"June knows?"

"Yes, Peter, June's known for as long as you have. She's even the owner of a couple Nathan Clay originals."

"Nathan Clay originals, huh?" Peter smiled. He was glad that June knew; she had taken Neal's death hard. All of them had. Even though Peter had felt the sharp pain of losing his friend, he hadn't grieved alone. He'd had Elizabeth and their friends; Neal's friends. They had mourned the loss together.

But Neal had lost, too; his friends, his home, and his sense of belonging. He had grieved his losses alone. It had been a tough year; not just for him but for Neal as well.

"You waited a year before telling anyone, why so long?"

Using his good arm to push down on the bed, Neal repositioned himself, moving, so his back was to the headboard. He pulled his knees up in front of him. Peter recognized the protective nature of the pose and thought that he had overstepped with the question. He should have continued to follow Neal's lead. But Neal's expression was thoughtful, not evasive, as he studied Peter.

"It took a year to know who I was; who Nathan Clay was going to be," He finally answered. "It started out as just a name on paper, but once I got there, I knew I didn't want another alias, another fake persona. I wanted something real."

The honesty in his voice kept Peter silent. He'd wanted a heart to heart with Neal for a long time. He hadn't pictured it to be in this way, both of them rumpled from sleep, sitting on the bed in a dimly lit room at four am, but here they were.

"From the time I became Neal Caffrey," Neal continued, "I've been playing roles, roles that suited an ever-changing cast of supporting characters. I've been whoever I was needed, or _expected_ , to be. There were times when I wanted more than that, wanted a life that was really _mine,_ but I could never…." He stopped and took a breath. "Apart from all of that, I didn't know _who_ I was; who I would be if I got to _choose_."

"You didn't let anyone know because you didn't want them influencing your decision," Peter observed.

"It had to just be me," Neal confirmed. "I had to figure it out for myself."

Peter nodded. Neal, at his core, had always been a people-pleaser. It made sense that the only way he could know what _he_ _wanted_ was to remove what _everyone else wanted_ from the equation.

"And once you did, you…." He paused, remembering Neal's precise answer to his earlier question. "You said you planned to tell Mozzie and June; you didn't plan to tell me, did you?"

Neal had been surprisingly open and, until now, hadn't seemed put out with the conversation. But at Peter's inquiry, he hugged his knees with his good arm and pulled them closer to his body. Again, a somewhat defensive posture. "Not originally."

"So," Peter asked, half humorously, "when did I make your need-to-know list?"

Neal, shrugged, eyes dropping. "When I decided that for the most part, you'd like who I was."

His words stung Peter. "I've _always_ liked you, Neal."

Neal's eyes came up and met Peters, his look arguing that statement. "I always wanted you to," he admitted, "and I know you tried. But you are FBI and Neal Caffrey will always be a criminal; that friendship was doomed from the start."

He had said those words to Neal; that he was a criminal and would always be a criminal. When Neal spoke of people's expectations of him, he'd pictured himself in the role of the angel, sitting on Neal's shoulder urging him to be good, expecting better from him. Mozzie, of course, he cast in the role of little devil, telling Neal he could only be a criminal. But in reality, Peter had been the one to tell Neal that.

 _Treat him like a criminal and he'll always think he is one._ Peter felt his face burn.

"I was wrong when I said that." At Neal's raised eyebrows, Peter shook his head, "Not when I said I've always liked you," he clarified gruffly, "when I said that you would always be a criminal. That was unfair, and _untrue."_

"It was how you felt at the time." Neal studied him; it was now Peter's turn to shift uncomfortably.

"Maybe, in that one, angry _moment,"_ Peter confessed reluctantly, "But I've never really believed that; ever." He paused. "And I certainly don't believe it now."

"Because Nathan Clay isn't a criminal?"

"Because _you're_ not a criminal," Peter corrected. "Elizabeth said that it doesn't matter what you call yourself, you still are who you are, so conversely, you aren't who you aren't, either."

"I've taken my medicine, Peter," Neal said patiently, "and even if I hadn't I don't think I'd follow that."

"It just means that you aren't a criminal anymore, whether Neal Caffrey or Nathan Clay, because you've chosen not to be one."

"Do you really believe that?" Neal pressed. "If I'm living in New York and a painting goes missing from the MET, are you going to come to me and ask if I had anything to do with it?"

"Only if it is an amazing feat, the work of an obvious genius…." Peter tried to laugh away the question but stopped at the expression on Neal's face; it was not a joke.

 _If I am living in New York,_ he had said. This was an important question to Neal, maybe the most important one. He didn't just want Peter's friendship; he wanted his trust. Peter studied the blue eyes that were studying his.

Would he?

He'd been asked at a hearing if he thought Neal Caffrey was reformed and he'd responded by saying the only way to ever know the answer to that question was to set him free and let him decide for himself. It was much the same sentiment Neal had expressed earlier; he didn't know who he was until he got to choose for himself. And he _had_ chosen. He had the freedom to be, _and to do_ , whatever he wanted and Nathan Clay was _not_ a criminal.

"I might come to you for help _solving_ the case, but no," he said firmly, shaking his head, "I wouldn't think you had anything to do with it."

"Unless I'd been acting strangely?" Neal ventured, "Had recently been out of touch?"

"You're an artist; acting strange and being out of touch just adds to your charm," Peter mused. "Remember?"

Neal, unconvinced, held his gaze and continued, "or suddenly landed a windfall of some kind?"

"You're a successful businessman. I'm sure windfalls aren't that uncommon." Peter smiled, "I hear auctions can be very lucrative."

"Yes, they can be." Peter got a small smile in return, but it was short lived. Neal's face again grew serious; he pulled his knees closer. "I'm not the same, Peter. This isn't some kind of con."

"I know it's not," Peter acknowledged, "I'm not the same, either. You did a lot of soul-searching in that year and so did I. Time and experience has changed us both." He hesitated, giving his next words some thought. "and if you had decided that crime was going to be your career of choice, you'd have never let me know you were alive."

"No," Neal agreed, "I wouldn't have. The last thing I'd want was to have Peter Burke on my trail again."

"You so sure I'd have _wanted_ to get on your trail again?"

"It's what you know," Neal said simply, "and I'm fun to chase. You couldn't have helped yourself. Tell the truth, once you knew I was alive, how long did it take for you to check the crime database to see if anything matched my _M.O_.?"

It was Peter's turn to go serious. "I didn't."

Neal looked at him in disbelief. "You _didn't?"_

"Is everything okay?" Both Peter and Neal jumped at Elizabeth's voice. She was standing in the doorway. "You've been gone a long time, Peter, I was worried."

"We're okay," Peter assured her, "Neal just had a…" he glanced at Neal, legs still pulled up protectively again his body, "a lot to sort through. We've been talking."

"That's good," She knew Peter had wanted the opportunity for some time. "I know this afternoon was hard, but things will work themselves out, given enough time. You'll see."

"Well, I got six weeks," Neal said humorously. "Jones is pretty upset with me," he looked at Peter, "with _us._ I'd guess that is what we can expect from everyone if the word gets out."

"Immediate joy followed by great anger," Peter admitted, "that was pretty much our response, too. Jones will come around; everyone will if you give them a chance. You just have to let them process it in their own time. They grieved for you, Neal, all of them. Clinton-" he stopped suddenly and looked at Neal.

"Diana is going to shoot me," Neal said soberly. Elizabeth laughed, and Peter couldn't help but smile at the resigned look on Neal's face.

Diana had shed tears for Neal Caffrey and her wrath, to be sure, would be harsh.

"She probably won't shoot you," Peter said, "but I'm sure she will seriously threaten."


	23. Chapter 23

_As the story winds down, it gets so much more challenging to write!_

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

"Do you think I should wake him?" Peter asked, looking up from the Times and peering towards the guest room. It was nearly ten a.m., and Neal had yet to stir. "He needs to eat and take his medicine." The pain medicine was negotiable, but the antibiotics were not. The last thing Neal needed was an infection.

"No," Elizabeth answered, twisting the top closed on Neal's cup and sitting it down in front of him. The three of them had just had a late Sunday morning breakfast. Elizabeth was clearing, Peter was reading the paper, and little Neal was playing with his cheerios. "He needs rest; let him sleep. You guys were up until almost five this morning. What woke him up?" Elizabeth asked, "Was he hurting?"

"No, he was just having trouble sleeping," Peter didn't mention that a nightmare had awakened Neal. "I think he just needed," he paused, realizing how strange it was going to sound "to talk some things out."

"I guess so after that homecoming," she responded. "Talking must have helped because he's sleeping good now. I checked on him a little while ago." She paused, "You know, I just stood there looking at him. It still seems like a miracle that he's even alive; even more of one that he's sleeping in our guest room."

"I know it does," Peter had thought the same thing the night before. "It's good to have him here."

"All that talk the first night he was here about opening a gallery in Philadelphia," she sent a curious look at Peter, "Was any of that true?"

"I don't know," Peter replied, "but he is thinking about coming back; he said he has been for awhile."

"Thinking about it?" she repeated, "What's to think about? This is where he belongs. He's already faced Jones, Diana will be tough but will forgive him, and June," Her face lit up, "Oh Peter, June will be thrilled…"

"She already knows, El," Peter told her, "He told her when he told Mozzie."

"That's good," she said, "She'd probably give him back his old apartment if he wanted it, and then…."

"We don't need to get ahead of ourselves," Peter interrupted, "or of him; he hasn't made a decision yet."

"Why ever not?" Elizabeth looked surprised, "His life is here, Peter, the people who care for him are here."

" _Neal Caffrey's_ life was here," Peter corrected, "Nathan Clay's life is in France; we can't just… discount that." Especially given what he'd accomplished there, Peter thought, the decisions he had made. The person he had become. "He's been gone two years, Elizabeth, he has a life and people who care for him there, too."

"You mean that _woman_?" She looked at him in disbelief. That woman, of course, was Elodie; Elizabeth didn't like her even though she had only met her twice. Descriptive words like haughty, snotty and uptight had been the adjectives she had used to describe her, and he guessed that after last night, she might have a few more to add to the list.

" _That woman_ manages his gallery, and whether you like her or not, she's a part of his life. You said something was going on between the two of them, and she did come all the way to New York to check on him."

" _Check on him_?" She scoffed, the dishes clanging louder than usual as she placed them in the dishwasher, "I speak French, Peter, and I assure you very little of what she said to him yesterday fit into that category."

"Neal doesn't need protecting or anyone telling him what to do with his life," Peter stated. "He's the only one who knows what is best for him."

Elizabeth's head appeared from around the corner; eyebrows raised. "I never thought I'd hear _those_ words come out of Peter Burke's mouth."

"Well, you've heard them now," he said, "Things change; _He's changed,_ and I don't mean just his name and that whole artsy playboy look he has going." It wasn't the superficial differences that mattered; it was the ones on the inside. "He's made a life for himself in Paris and just because we want him back here-" He stopped and shook his head. "It has to be what's right for him."

"I don't understand; all you've talked about since you came back from Venezuela was how much you wanted Neal to come home. You don't really think he's better off in Paris, do you?"

"It's not about what I think. It's about what he thinks. Paris, the Nathan Clay Gallery, Elodie…that's his life now. He's," he tried to find the word, "comfortable with it."

"Being comfortable isn't the same as being happy, Peter, and I told you; he's not _happy._ Just because he feels…emotionally safe there doesn't mean it's where he needs to stay." She had abandoned her job in the kitchen and rounded the corner, drying her hands on the dish towel. "As for Elodie, he was barely on his feet, after being shot saving someone's life, and all she could do rant about his double life." So that had been the tirade; Peter had guessed as much. "I have a good mind to -"

"Mind your own business?" Peter interjected, "Well, that's good because that's what you're going to do. Neal is capable of handing his love life without any help from you."

"Something's going on between them but I never said it was love," she said flatly.

"Whatever it is, you might have to learn to like her: I saw the way he looked at her yesterday," he teased. "She might someday become _Auntie Elodie_."

"God forbid," She replied.

"Unk Nay!" Little Neal shouted in delight.

Both Peter and Elizabeth looked up to see the other Neal standing in the hallway. At little Neal's greeting, he flashed a smile, but the blush on his cheek told them he'd at least been there long enough to hear the Auntie Elodie comment.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Neal awakened stiff and sore; his surroundings were not immediately familiar and for a moment he was confused. The feeling of alarm passed quickly as the smell of bacon whiffed through the air, and he heard the sounds of conversation in the next room. It was Peter and Elizabeth, and the room he was in was their guestroom.

His body hurt, but he felt a strange feeling of contentment. Not ready to interrupt that rare event, he just lay there, listening. He was unable to distinguish the exact words that were being exchanged or to follow any conversation. Occasionally there was a little yelp or squeal from his namesake; Neal Burke. That concept still brought mixed feelings just like so many other things did. A warmth to think they had chosen to remember him in such a way; guilt that deception had led them to such a gesture.

He had slept soundly, and peacefully after Peter left him in the wee hours of the morning to return to his own bed. Other than when he'd been drugged out of his mind at the hospital, it was the best sleep he'd had since his return. Of course, the night hadn't started out that way.

Dreaming about his funeral was a first; brought on, he knew, by the visit from Clinton Jones. He had never given thought to the fact that there would have been a funeral for him; that people would come, sent cards, flowers or those ridiculous dish gardens. A priest, pastor, or shaman had probably said words over his ashes….his ashes? What had happened to them? He hadn't thought about that, either, although he had arranged for there to be some. Did someone, Mozzie or June, maybe the two of them, shed tears as they spread ashes they thought were their friends? The brief moment of contentment gone, he turned his mind from the dream and put it in a more encouraging direction.

He'd been embarrassed when Peter showed up in his room to check on him, but the conversation that followed had been worth the awkwardness. They hadn't had a lot of time to talk about anything except the case, and even when they had talked about more personal things, it had been in brief, borrowed moments. Even the more relevant conversations that had followed at the hospital had felt strained. But sitting in his bed, in the dimly lit guest room, Neal had been able to open up. He'd been able to talk about Nathan Clay; who he was and how he had come to be. And Peter hadn't only listened to him, he was sure he had _heard_ him.

Peter had changed, maybe as much as he had. That was what everything came down to; how much the two of them had changed. Peter had passed every test Neal had given him, and several providence had provided. He had treated him as a friend; not a criminal or even an asset. Any doubts he'd had about Peter's part in that equation had all but disappeared after just over a week.

A part of him had wanted to come back to New York since the moment Peter had asked him when they parted company in South America.

 _In seven hours you could be sitting at my kitchen table having dinner._

He had missed sitting at the Burke table. He missed when Elizabeth tried a new dish and wanted his expert opinion and the way Peter would roll his eyes when he delivered her dinner invitation. He missed working with Peter, pouring over files and reports and complaining about how boring it was. He missed the look Peter would give him when he found a lead or connection that had escaped everyone else's attention. He missed his early morning runs in Riverside Park and having coffee with June on the rooftop terrace. He had bought the same brand of coffee in Paris, but it never tasted the same.

When Peter had made that impulsive offer-and he knew it had been that-all of those things popped into his mind. In an instant, he realized how lonely it was to be Nathan Clay. How empty his life was and how much he missed New York. It had taken every bit of his self-control to decline, to board the plane and return to Paris.

Then Elizabeth had visited and again extended an invitation to return to New York. He would be welcome, she said. That what he missed most still existed, could possibly be reclaimed in some form, became an enticing thought; more enticing than any heist he'd ever contemplated.

With such an emotional ramification, it needed careful consideration before any action could be taken. The first action had been the call to Peter. After that, he'd starting thinking about step two; a visit. He couldn't just show up at the Burke's front door; he needed a reason to be there. Then, miraculously, the Cordero organization provided him one.

He had come back, put his plans into action, made a considerable amount of money and had a pretty good time doing it. The plan to deal a blow to the Cordero organization had gone better than he could have imagined, the operation even catching Peter's kidnappers in the process. With the unexpected turn of events at the gallery, the pay off would be immediate and not merely pending. His return had been an operational success. The only drawback of it was that he'd been shot and was now stuck in New York for six more weeks.

But after that, what should he do? Was an actual relocation a good idea? That part still caused him some apprehension. While he was no longer an active criminal, and the statute of limitation had run out on all of his questionable activities, things from his past could still come up. Wasn't it better that, if they surfaced, they surfaced in Paris?

And it wasn't only his past he had to consider; it was his future. He had worked on being more self-aware, and part of that was recognizing that he still battled with some of the lesser qualities of his personality. As early as four months ago, thrilled by the events in Venezuela, he'd worried that he might be tempted to stray from the relatively straight and narrow road he'd been traveling. As early as two days ago, in an emotional panic, and to be fair, a drugged state of mind, he'd seriously considered disappearing from the hospital; an action which would effectively have ended any chance of continued friendship with Peter. He hadn't acted on those temptations, but he couldn't deny they had been there. He loved a challenge; the thrill of the game and when he was emotionally involved in a situation he was prone to act impulsively; that was who he was.

He wanted to stay in New York, but just because he wanted something didn't make it the right thing to do. It wasn't just about what he thought would make him happy; it was about the people his decision would effect. It was, in large part, about the three people in the next room. Peter and Elizabeth knew him, knew the worst things about him and yet still wanted him in their lives. Wanted him in the life of their _son._ It seemed almost too much to believe or accept.

They sounded happy and content as they enjoyed their Sunday morning breakfast and as he lay there, listening to the easy hum of conversation, he knew he never wanted to do anything to change that.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

After assurance from Neal that he didn't need more food, a drink or blanket from the hall closet, Elizabeth bundled Little Neal up in his coat and hat and left, with Satchmo, for their Sunday excursion to the park.

"You look better," Peter said, sitting down on the sofa. Neal had taken his place in Peter's usual Sunday spot, the recliner. "The sleep did you good."

"I feel better," Neal admitted, "I slept better this morning than I have…well, since I came to New York." He paused. "Thanks for not saying anything to Elizabeth last night about, you know, what really woke me up. I don't want her worrying about me more than she already does."

Peter guessed it was more embarrassment than Elizabeth's worrying Neal wanted to avoid. "I've been there, you know," Peter ventured, "I had nightmares after I came back from Venezuela." He met Neal's eyes. "Talking about them might help."

"They're not nightmares," Neal modified, "just…unpleasant dreams."

First unsettling and now just unpleasant; Neal was downgrading his nightmares one adjective at a time. "Whatever you call them," Peter said. "It might help to talk them out at some point."

"I highly doubt it." His tone suggested that was the last thing he wanted to do. Having shared the same opinion himself, Peter well understood the position.

"I felt the same way," He confided, "but as much as I resisted the idea of talking about them, once I did, I felt…better." _Eventually,_ but he didn't add that.

"Did you talk to Elizabeth?" It was a logical assumption, but sadly, it was an incorrect one.

"No, I couldn't talk about it with her," he answered hesitantly. Couldn't wasn't correct; didn't want to was more accurate. "She had her own difficulties with what had happened. I talked about them with a therapist."

"A therapist?" Neal repeated, eyes widening. " _You_ talked to a therapist?" Peter might as well have said he'd traveled to outer space and talked things over with an alien.

"I didn't exactly have a choice," he defended, "the bureau ordered me to. And believe it or not, it helped." Neal still looked skeptical. "It helped me to understand why I was having nightmares," he paused before adding, "and panic attacks."

Neal's expression went from surprise to sympathy. "I had no idea."

"No one did," Peter replied. "Except Elizabeth, of course, I couldn't hide it from her. I had a hard time sleeping, and when I did I'd wake up terrified in a cold sweat." The slight furrowing of Neal's brow told Peter he identified with the experience. "Or worse, yelling and thrashing around. It was humiliating."

"Tell me about it," Neal said quietly. Peter guessed he remembered his own nightly experiences. "Did they stop? The dreams?"

"They come less and less frequently," Peter replied, "but now that those responsible are going to rot in their own 10 x 10 cells, I hope I can put it behind me. Thanks for that, by the way."

"You're welcome." He studied Peter a moment before continuing. "Mine aren't the same one over and over the way it was after…." He hesitated, "after _Kate_." Peter could imagine what that reoccurring dream had been. "They are different every night."

Every night. That spoke to the frequency.

"So were mine," Peter encouraged, "Dr. Myers told me it's not always the subject of the dreams that's significant; it's the feelings it provokes." Neal didn't respond, and Peter continued. "In my dreams, I felt helpless, afraid and humiliated." Again, Peter saw Neal's eyes soften in sympathy.

"Well, I usually feel trapped, desperate and confused in mine," Neal confessed, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. "I feel like _Neal Caffrey_."

"I hate to point it out," Peter began tentatively, "but you _are_ Neal Caffrey."

"Not anymore," Neal replied impatiently, "and I don't appreciate waking up _feeling like him_ , either."

It was always strange when he talked about Neal Caffrey as if he were a separate entity. The way he did so now, with clear irritation in his voice, brought a small smile to Peter's lips. Neal being annoyed with Neal was comical.

"I'm sure you don't," Peter acknowledged, "but your past is a part of who you are. This is where you lived as Neal Caffrey, now that you're back, it makes sense that you'd, well, _feel_ like him."

"I don't feel like him all the time," Neal said hastily, "Most of the time, especially when I was busy with the Cordero thing, I feel like me." Nathan Clay, Peter assumed. "But at night, the dreams I have," he shook his head, "they are all Neal Caffrey."

Unsettling, unpleasant, trapped, desperate and confused. Poor Neal; poor _Nathan._

"Is it harder than you thought it would be, being back here?"

Neal didn't answer immediately. "I knew it would stir up a lot of feelings," he admitted, "and that they wouldn't all be pleasant. I figured I'd have some initial adjustment problems, bad dreams, a lot of mixed feelings. I anticipated all of that and knew I'd have to work through it." His voice grew tense, "I just didn't anticipate having to work through it _here_."

Peter now better understood Neal's distress during his discharge. The nightmares began when he arrived in New York, and Peter knew from experience the toll they could take on a person. But in spite of that Neal had sailed through the first week without any outward signs of difficulty. He had been the picture of calm confidence. Even though he had started most mornings feeling trapped, desperate and confused, during the day he had been focused, decisive and self-assured. Having anticipated the difficulties, he had managed them well. When the two weeks were up, he'd have gone back to Paris. It was from there, what Elizabeth referred to as his _emotionally safe_ _place_ , he would have reached his decision about a more permanent return to the city.

But the trip had been postponed and Nathan Clay, prepared for two weeks in New York, was not prepared for seven. To make matters worse, he no longer had a penthouse suite in which to weather his nightmares in privacy; he was now tucked into the Burke guest bedroom with it's paper thin walls. Elodie was in town, awaiting an explanation, and Jones had learned that Neal Caffrey was alive. So many emotionally charged situations were converging on him at once and there was no place to go to escape them.

No wonder he was tense. "New York is your parking garage." The statement popped out of Peter's mouth the moment it occurred to him.

The look on Neal's face was of total confusion. "My _what?"_

Peter leaned forward and tried to explain. "The first day I was cleared to go back to the office I made it half way across the parking garage before it hit me." He paused, remembering the event. " A panic attack. I ran to the elevator, then realized there was no way in hell I was going into that small space, so I took the stairs. I got inside the building and went straight to the bathroom. It was half an hour before I was able to go upstairs."

"You were flashing back to the kidnapping?"

"It wasn't even a flashback, it was just an onslaught of emotions," Peter said, " _unsettling ones_. I tried to just get over it, but at the end of the day-" he shook his head. "I had one of the agents bring the car around to the front for me. Made some excuse about being tired but the fact was I couldn't bring myself to go back out into that garage."

"New York is my parking garage," Neal repeated. "Let me guess, the next morning, you parked there anyway, right?"

Peter studied Neal thoughtfully. Neal was expecting a variation on the Cowboy Up speech, but that wasn't the message he was trying to deliver.

"No, the next day, I looked around for somewhere else to park," Peter confessed. "I wasn't about to go into that garage again until I was sure I wouldn't freak out; I found a space in a lot three blocks from the office." He met Neal's eyes with understanding. "I can't imagine what it would have felt like not to have had that option, to have been forced to park there before I was ready."

"Then New York is definitely my parking garage," Neal agreed. "Add a group of curious onlookers and you have my situation exactly. So, do you still walk three blocks to the office every day?"

"Of course not," Peter smiled. "It took four and a half weeks, but I park in the garage."

"Well, then six should be more than enough for me."


	24. Chapter 24

_Sorry for such a delay and such a short chapter; had some real life complications that put me behind and off schedule._

 _Thanks for reading and reviewing!_

 **Chapter Twenty Four**

Neal rested a lot during the day, not because anyone insisted on it, but because it simply was necessary. Any activity quickly depleted his energy; just getting out of bed, dressed, and to the kitchen for a late breakfast had left him exhausted. After he'd ate, he had joined Peter in the living room before returning to his room to rest and make some phone calls.

Peter had stretched out on the sofa and was watching a western by the time Neal returned. He took a seat in the recliner, and Peter suggested he let the chair live up to its name and recline for awhile. Elizabeth helped him with the side lever, and once he was in a comfortable position, asked if she could bring him a magazine or a book. He declined, content to watch television; it wasn't long before he was asleep. Elizabeth, not wanting his rest interrupted by a rambunctious two-year-old, took Neal upstairs to play in his room. The movie ended, Peter went to the kitchen for something to drink and to snack on, and still Neal slept. Over two hours later when he awakened, he apologized, embarrassed to have fallen asleep in the middle of the Burke living room. Peter told him someone falling asleep in the recliner on a Sunday afternoon was a frequent occurrence; usually, it was him.

They had talked about the case, what Peter would be dealing with at the office the next day, as well as the need to schedule a meeting with Agent Elliot and Agent Singleton to finish up the paperwork involved in Nathan Clays agreement to work with the DEA and the FBI.

When Elizabeth began dinner preparations, Neal expressed his desire to get a shower. The rest had done him good; he said, and he was certain a shower would yield even greater improvements. Peter tried to discourage it until Monday, the full thirty-six hours the discharge orders had specified, but Neal had stood firm. The night before he'd been too exhausted to eat and had only forced down a few bites so he could take his medications. Tonight was his first official Burke family dinner, and he wasn't going to sit down to it without a shower and shave.

It was after this excursion, that Neal stuck his head out his bedroom door and called for Peter.

"Can you come here for a minute?"

Peter answered his request and proceeded to the guest room. Dressed only in sweat pants, Neal indicated the medical supplies on the bed and asked Peter if he could help him reapply the needed bandages. He seemed embarrassed to ask, but he couldn't have managed it on his own.

Although Peter knew about Neal's injuries and had listened as the doctor explained the damage that had been done, and the step taken to correct it, seeing the visible representation was still somewhat of a shock. There were some lingering swelling and a lot of bruising; Neal's arm was discolored all the way to his forearm. Peter could understand Neal's self-consciousness and knew he didn't help matters when he grimaced at the sight of the injuries.

"Sorry," Peter mumbled at Neal's look, "Sit down."

He did so, sitting down on the edge of the bed while Peter gathered necessary items and began to cover the two wounds.

"You should have gotten Elizabeth to do this," He said after Neal's second sharp intake of breath, an indication of Peter's lack of skill at wound care. "She has a more gentle touch than I do."

"I don't need gentle, Peter," Neal replied curtly, "I just need it done. I can't reach it, or I would have done it myself." His tone, in addition to the tension in his frame, indicated discomfort. Peter guessed it wasn't just physical discomfort that was bothering him. It was the helplessness his situation was making him feel.

"Not a problem," Peter tried to downplay the event, "Almost finished." When he had, he put everything back into the clear plastic bag. "Anything else I can do?"

Neal took a deep breath, glad it was over. "That's good, thanks."

He reached over and picked up a black tee shirt. "I appreciate Elizabeth picking up a few things, but she only got two sets of pajama's, two tee shirts and a pair of sweats." The strained look left his face and was replaced by a smile. "Hardly appropriate dinner attire."

"Well, we don't stand on formality here," Peter chuckled, "but you could call Mozzie, or Elodie, and have them bring some clothes over, or I can pick them up for you tomorrow."

Neal put on the shirt; getting the injured arm through the sleeve looked painful. Peter wanted to lend a hand but refrained.

"Mozzie's bringing me a change tomorrow," he said, "then he's driving me over to the Waldorf; I told Elodie we'd talk in person before she flies back to France."

"I can see not wanting to do that meeting in sweats," Peter mused. "You sure you're up to that? Can't it wait a few days until you're stronger?"

"She's flying out Tuesday morning," Neal was now putting on the sling, adjusting the strap so that his arm hung comfortably. "I'll be okay; I'll keep it short."

Somehow Peter had a hard time thinking that conversation would be a short one.

Peter had assumed he had talked to her earlier in the day but only because he'd heard snatches of French coming from the guest room. Since Nathan Clay lived in France he could have been talking to any number of people; Peter supposed, but Elodie did seem to be the most probable. When Neal had emerged from his room a while later, he hadn't mentioned anything about it, and Peter hadn't asked.

"Tuesday morning?" Peter inquired, "Why so soon?"

"There's gallery business to take care of," Neal stated. "We are going to work things out so I can do some work from here, but right now, she needs to cancel or reschedule everything on my calendar for next week."

Peter doubted it was just gallery business hastening her departure. Apparently all difficult situations were easier to deal with in Paris. "I'd think she'd want to stay at least a couple days to sort things out with you."

"There's nothing to sort out," Neal said frankly. He stepped to the dresser and picked up a comb. "She knows I was Neal Caffrey before I was Nathan Clay, and today I told her who he was."

"It must have been the abridged edition."

"Just the facts," Neal ran the comb through his still wet hair, "Neal Caffrey was a convicted bond forger who served his sentence working White Collar cases for the FBI, and when that service was complete, started a new life as Nathan Clay."

"Wow, that was the simplified version."

"Simple is good, Peter, it is a guiding principle of my life."

"You could have dressed it up a little," he pointed out, "Told her how you went to South America to rescue a kidnapped Federal Agent, came to the States and brought down a drug ring and took a bullet saving someone's life. You'd have sounded positively heroic."

"That wasn't Neal," His eyes sparkled with amusement as he met Peter's in the mirror, "that was _me,_ and I'm saving the good stuff for when I see her in person."

"Don't blame you," Peter mused, nodding toward his arm. "Might as well use that wound to your advantage; she won't stand a chance." Not that many women did. He continued, his tone growing a bit more serious. "You think she's going to be good with all this?"

"I don't know if _good_ is the word I'd use," He replied, "But it is what it is. I've never lied to her about my past; we just haven't discussed it before now."

"Yeah," Peter said, "that whole _no questions asked_ policy."

"That has been one of the rules in our relationship."

" _One of them_?" No Contact. No Questions Asked. That whole Terms of Service. "For someone who doesn't like rules, you sure impose a lot of them these days."

Satisfied with his image in the mirror, Neal turned and faced Peter. "I told you, I've changed; I not only _impose_ rules, I even play by them most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"What can I say?" he smiled, "I'm still a work in progress."


	25. Chapter 25

****Chapter Twenty Five****

Nathan Clay's First Official Burke Family Dinner was a success; both the food and the conversation were satisfying. Even little Neal had been on his best behavior, only tossing a few of his peas at his dinner companions. Elizabeth normally would have scolded such behavior, but when the other Neal returned fire, she closed her mouth and watched in amusement. She wasn't sure, but guessed it was Neal's first sit down dinner with a two-year-old. After a short volley of green peas, Peter cleared his throat in mock disapproval; the elder Neal looked properly chastised, the younger giggled, and order was restored to the table.

The week before, outside the initial expressions of surprise, greetings, and customary catch up, the conversation had focused on Neal's unexpected appearance in New York. He had spoken in detail about the week he'd spent in Philadelphia, supposedly scouting for possible Gallery locations. Peter had known Neal was following a script; establishing a reason for his visit to New York while concealing the true one. He had even been complicit in the ruse.

Thankfully, as far as Peter knew, tonight there were no underlying issues, required scripts nor acts of deception; it made the evening much more enjoyable. Other than the fact that Neal was recovering from a gunshot wound, it was the dinner Peter had imagined ever since he'd sat with Neal in the Bogota airport four months before. Peter caught Neal up on the goings and comings at the White Collar Office; Elizabeth talked more about her son than her job, and Neal gave them some insights into the Art Gallery business.

"It takes work to sell art," Neal said, "It's a commodity that's generally expensive and serves no practical purpose," He smiled, "and unlike a BMW 760, you can't even drive it around to show it off for an ego boost."

"You seem to be doing pretty well judging by the lifestyle you're enjoying," Peter noted.

"As you well know, Peter," Neal replied with a smile, "I'm _excellent_ at sales. And so is Elodie; She handles the Gallery and show sales, and I deal primarily with private collectors."

Elizabeth, having a working relationship with several New York Galleries, was more familiar with their operating procedures than Peter. The only time he dealt with them was during investigations where they either were, or knew, the victim or perpetrator of a crime.

"Some art dealers research what collectors are paying top dollar for and find new artists who fit the bill," She explained, "Other's take the opposite approach; they find artists they believe in and then try to locate buyers for their art."

"I tend to follow the latter," Neal affirmed, "I start with the artist and go from there. I match the art I represent with buyers who collect similar styles or genres. Then I broker the deal and take a cut of the profit. Everyone walks away happy."

"I get it," Peter said, "It's kind of like working as a fence except the items you're selling aren't stolen."

"Very similar," Neal acknowledged in amusement, "and you generally deal with a better class of people and don't have to meet in alleys or abandoned warehouses."

"Or get double-crossed, shot at or chased by the police?"

"Exactly," Neal's grinned, "all the profit without those pesky consequences of illegal activity."

Neal was the smartest man Peter had ever known; that was what had set him apart from any other criminal he'd ever pursued. Neal's intelligence, skill and sheer audacity had always impressed Peter, but also frustrated him. The young man was more than smart, he was brilliant, and could be successful at anything he chose to do. The problem was he had a habit of making bad choices. Or at least, he _used_ to have.

"I'm glad you found a career that suits your particular talents," Peter returned humorously, "and keeps you free from _pesky_ _consequences_ of illegal activities."

"All that talk about opening a gallery stateside," Elizabeth inserted, "Was it true or was it just part of the story the two of you concocted to keep me from knowing what you were up to?"

"I had no part in the concocting," Peter denied, "He brought that cover story in the door with him as a finished product."

The look she sent Peter indicated her skepticism, but she addressed Neal. "Were you really looking at rental properties in Philadelphia?"

"All cover stories have an element of truth," Neal replied easily, "that's what makes them believable. And I _was_ looking at rental properties."

"But not for an art gallery," Peter asserted, "He was looking for auction space."

Neal opened his mouth but Peter held up a hand, "I know, anything you did in Philadelphia short of murder or an act of terrorism is covered in the immunity deal you signed with the State Attorney. I'm just curious."

"The auction was the original job offer," Neal conceded, "But once I accepted, I was able to convince them to let me handle the other aspects as well. Which led to our little operation that will effectively bring down the Cordero Organization. What are you curious about?" He teased, "My commission?"

He was curious about that, but he was also curious about something else. "No," he answered, "Whether you agreed to do the auction as a way to gather intel on the Cordero drug routes or if you knew providing intel on the Cordero drug routes would allow you to do the auction without fear of legal consequences?"

Neal's eyes twinkled in mischief. "It all sort of occurred to me at once," he related, "That's how you can tell a good plan; it's like puzzle pieces falling into place. You got the Cordero organization and me, well, I got to do what I love to do and make a lot of money in the process."

"You also got _shot_ in the process." Peter reminded him.

"I said it was a _good_ plan," Neal replied, "I never said it was a _perfect_ one."

Elizabeth placed a Thomas the Train plate in front of little Neal with thin apple slices and a dollop of peanut butter, then went into the kitchen. She returned with apple pie, hot from the oven.

"Get the ice cream from the freezer, Peter, and the scoop from the drawer." She sat the pie on the table, and Peter rose to retrieve the requested items. "This auction you held," Elizabeth began cutting the pie and placing generous slices onto the dessert plates. "I guess it was art?"

Apple Pie A La Mode was on the menu as the final course of the three-course meal Elizabeth had prepared. She loved to cook and equated a good meal with feelings of home and family, something she was convinced Neal wanted no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. Peter knew she saw the upcoming six weeks as an opportunity to remind Neal of why New York was his home, and why they were his family. She had promised Peter she wouldn't outright pressure him, but she had her own subtle ways of applying pressure and Peter knew she planned to use every one.

Peter returned and added scoops of vanilla ice cream to the warm apple pie before taking his seat again.

"Some _really good_ art," Neal was saying, "I moved twenty-four lots, mostly single paintings or small collections. There was a Rodin, a Picasso Vase and a bronze by Van Tetrode in there as well."

"Picasso and Rodin I've heard of," Peter wasted no time digging into his pie, "but not the other guy."

"Tetrode was a Renaissance sculptor who worked in Italy," Neal followed Peter's lead and took a bite of his pie. "A collector from Venice had the winning bid; a fourteen-inch sculpture brought in just over three million dollars."

"Agent Elliot says the Task Force estimates the auction brought in about fifty million," Peter peered across the table at Neal, "Are they guessing high or low?"

"A bit low," Neal grinned, "It was closer to sixty, making my commission just shy of six million dollars."

Both Peter and Elizabeth's pie-laden forks stopped en route to their mouths.

"You made _six million dollars_?" Peter asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Neal, clearly enjoying the shocked look on their faces, continued, "on top of the two hundred and fifty thousand I got up front. Not bad for a week's work."

Peter knew Neal had been well paid to do the auction but was still surprised at _how_ well. Six million dollars. He ran down the list of suspected crimes in Neal's past; he couldn't think of a single instance where he'd made off with a pay off that large. It was likely the biggest score of his life, and for all intents and purposes, it was completely legal.

"You know," Peter lowered his fork and shook his head in amazement, "You never cease to amaze me."

In spite of the paleness of his face, Neal positively beamed at his words. "That's one thing I'm glad _hasn'_ t changed."

"So tell me, what are your plans now that you are a millionaire?" Once the question left his mouth he realized he'd posed it incorrectly; he hadn't meant to ask about Neal's plans for his future, just his plans for his money. Neal's exuberance faded at the question and Peter rushed to clarify. "Extravagant purchases, world travel?"

"That's part of what Moz and I need to discuss tomorrow," Neal related, his smile returning. "In addition to being my logistics expert and legal counsel, he's also my financial advisor."

"Of course, he is," Peter responded, glad his misstep hadn't dampened Neal's mood. "Mozzie, too, is a man of many talents."

"It will be good to see Mozzie," Elizabeth broke in. "Peter said he was coming tomorrow and that you were going over to the Waldorf," She met Neal's eyes in concern. "Are you sure you're up to that?"

It was a valid question given the fact that he'd had slept most of the day and still had weariness stamped on his pale face. Dinner had been good, the conversation entertaining, but was also beginning to take its toll. Peter guessed it wouldn't be long before Neal made an excuse to retire to his room.

"Not really," he admitted with a sigh, "but I'll manage. I need to get my things, and I promised Elodie I'd see her before she flies out Tuesday morning."

"Hopefully, she's calmed down," Elizabeth glanced at Neal. "She looked ready to do you bodily harm yesterday."

"She has," Neal assured her. "Yesterday's behavior was very much out of character for her. She's usually the picture of composure; that whole Neal Caffrey thing just caught her off guard."

"She wasn't the only one caught off guard; I have to deal with Jones tomorrow." Peter wasn't looking forward to it, either. "I guess we both have a tough Monday ahead of us."

"You each have to deal with one after they've had a chance to calm down," Elizabeth said, "I had all three of them here at one time. Clinton had just got here, demanding to know when I expected you, when Mozzie and Elodie arrived. And the two of them were arguing when they got here."

He and Elizabeth hadn't really discussed the previous evening's events, other than her clear dislike of Elodie Angevine.

 _"Who dresses like that for a transatlantic flight?"_ She'd asked Peter after both Neal's were safely in bed and they had retired to their room. Peter had to admit, Elodie looked like she'd stepped out of Vogue Magazine and into the Burke's living room.

 _"Who looks like that after a transatlantic flight?"_ He'd replied, which had earned him a smack from Elizabeth.

"What were they arguing about?" Peter now asked Elizabeth.

"I couldn't tell exactly," Elizabeth recalled, "but I don't think Mozzie was happy she was here."

"He didn't bring her?" Peter had assumed they had come together.

"No," Neal shook his head, "Mozzie said Joulie followed him. He didn't know she was here, until, well she was _here_. At the house. That's why he didn't warn me."

The thoughts that someone could follow Mozzie without his knowledge was a testament either to his distracted state of mind or their skill level. "Elodie isn't some kind of ex-covert operative or anything, is she?" He asked jokingly

"Not that I'm aware of," Neal returned, "but then again, we have that _no questions asked_ rule so she could be for all I know. Serve me right if she's ex-Interpol or something."

"Yeah, and Neal Caffrey was the criminal that got away," Peter chuckled.

"That would put a serious kink in our relationship."

" _No questions asked_ rule?" Elizabeth interrupted their discourse. "How long have the two of you been together?"

"She's worked at the Gallery two years," Neal answered, "I hired her right after I arrived in Paris."

"I meant, been together as a couple," Elizabeth amended.

"Oh," Neal replied, "We've been seeing each other socially for about ten months now."

Ten months ago was when Peter had gotten the first call from Nathan Clay. Before that, even though he'd known Neal was alive and in France, he hadn't known what identity he had assumed. Neal had said it took him time to figure out who he was. Peter guessed that about ten months ago, he had come to some understanding of who that was.

"That's a long time. Are things," she paused, "serious between you two?"

Neal's eyes twinkled. "There's no chance of an _Auntie Elodie_ if that's what you're asking."

"You heard that, huh?" She had started the after dinner clean up, beginning with her son. Using a napkin, she was wiping peanut butter from his fingers and face. "We were just curious; that's all."

 _"Elizabeth_ was just curious," Peter corrected, "I told her your love life wasn't any of our business."

"It's more of an arrangement than a love life," Neal explained, "and I wouldn't categorize us as a couple in the usual sense of the word."

"Really," Elizabeth's eyebrows raised in question, "exactly how would you categorize yourselves?"

Peter gave Elizabeth a warning look; they had discussed the importance of not pressuring Neal during his stay. If he couldn't ask about Neal's plans for the future, Elizabeth didn't need to be asking about his plans with Elodie. The two could well be intertwined.

"Elizabeth," Peter began, "This isn't-"

"We are a couple at social events," he defined over Peter's objection. "Going together keeps the little old ladies from trying to set me up with their granddaughters; and privately, we are consenting adults who enjoy each others company. That's all. There's no strings attached."

"She came all the way from France to see you and was upset when she got here." Elizabeth looked at him doubtfully. "Sounds like some kind of strings are attached."

"No," Neal stated with certainty, "She came because she was curious and was upset because she was the only one here who didn't know about my past." He shrugged. "She was embarrassed; her pride was injured, not her heart."

Neal's characterization of the relationship between he and Elodie aligned perfectly with Elizabeth's initial assessment. She'd said all along it wasn't love; that it was more show than substance.

Elodie Angevine and Nathan Clay; Miss Vogue and Mr. GQ. Peter imagined they made quite an impression at Parisian social events.

"Then I'm sure things will work out fine once the two of you talk," Elizabeth removed little Neal from his chair and placed him instinctively on her hip. "Pride heals much faster than the heart."

Neal grinned at Peter, "I'm hoping my recent exploits as a crime fighter will offset any reservations she has about selling art for a convicted forger."

"Then I'd leave out the little matter of that Matisse if I were you," Peter advised.


	26. Chapter 26

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story and sent me words of encouragement. Reviews really do motivate, so please keep them coming for just a little while longer. One more chapter will conclude Bonjour Encore. February marks the one year anniversary of my foray into fanfiction. I have enjoyed it very much, and that is because of those of you who have read and reviewed, followed and favorited my stories during that time. Many thanks to each one of you._

 **Chapter Twenty Six**

When Neal returned from his adventures at the Waldorf late Monday afternoon, Peter had been a little surprised to see him; he'd thought there might be a chance he would remain with Elodie her last night in the city. He had chosen not to and looking at the strain of weariness and discomfort on his face; Peter could understand why.

After depositing Neal's bags in his room, Mozzie had made a hasty exit, turning down Elizabeth's invitation to join them for dinner. Shortly after his departure, Neal did the same thing, stating he had eaten an early dinner with Elodie at the hotel. Under the guise of putting away his things, he disappeared into his room. When Peter checked on him an hour later, he was already asleep. Fully clothes, he was sprawled across the bed; his bags of clothing where Mozzie had deposited them still unpacked.

The night passed without incident; neither Elizabeth or Peter heard a sound from him during the night. On Tuesday morning, he appeared well rested, confident that he had made peace with Elodie and that there would be no serious repercussions of her finding out about his past as Neal Caffrey. At his second sit-down dinner with the Burke family, he insisted he'd be fine if everyone-he looked pointedly at Elizabeth-resumed their normal schedule on Wednesday.

Neal's health had been steadily improving with each passing day. There was a hint of tiredness in his eyes that indicated sleep was still less than perfect, but his strength had returned, and the paleness of his face become less distinct. He moved with ease, and other than the sling he still sported, bore no signs of his injury. He emerged from his room Thursday morning looking particularly well. Dressed casual but classy, hair purposefully unruly, he was Nathan Clay, Gallery Owner, ready for his nine o'clock meeting with Agent Elliot, Agent Singleton and the representative from the Attorney's General's office. Once again, he looked like he had stepped from the pages of some edgy magazine.

After a quick breakfast, Peter cleared the table, and Elizabeth packed Little Neal's backpack, and they all disembarked on their respective days. Neal had passed on breakfast, a first since he'd been their guest. Peter could tell Neal had something on his mind; the first of the trip passed in relative silence in spite of Peter's attempts at normal conversation.

Finally, Neal spoke. "Thank you."

Neal wasn't cleared to drive, and as far as Peter knew, Mozzie still had possession of the rental car, yet Peter doubted he was expressing his gratitude about the ride to the meeting. But he responded as if he were.

"Not a problem. I have to be there, too."

"I wasn't talking about the ride, Peter." Neal's clarified quietly, confirming Peter's hunch. "I mean for everything. For staying with me at the hospital, for listening to me the other night ramble on about my… _my issues_." Neal's look was quick. "And most of all, for letting me figure things out without telling me what you think I should do."

Peter almost asked when telling him what he thought he should do had ever worked, but he refrained.

"I told you before," Peter said, "you're the only one who knows where you need to be and what's going to make you happy. As for the rest of it, well, I'm your friend, and that's what friends do."

"I just want you to know I appreciate it," Neal looked questioningly at him. "You haven't even called me Neal."

Neal had been in his house for six days, and Peter was pretty sure he'd avoided calling him anything. "Really?" He lied, "I hadn't paid that much attention."

"I have been called Unk Nay a few times, though."

"Well, _Unk Nay_ ," Peter replied, "little Neal likes you."

"He's not going to like me if I'm the reason he's called _Little Neal_ for the rest of his life." His tone was amused.

Peter chuckled. "I survived Petie, so he'll be fine." He glanced at his friend. "It builds character."

The blue eyes lit up. "Petie?"

Peter winced; that information should have never been disclosed. "Don't even-"

" _Petie Burke,"_ Neal repeated, unable to keep the grin off his face.

"Now it's _Agent_ Burke, and I carry a weapon," Peter warned. "Keep that in mind."

"Relax, Petie," Neal teased. "How long do you think this meeting is going to take?"

"Shouldn't take long," Peter replied. "They'll just go over the terms and conditions of the agreement, confirm that everything was followed and fulfilled; we'll all sign and be out of there. Half an hour tops. Why?" He asked. "Got big plans?"

"It's been nice, you know, staying with you guys." It wasn't an answer. "I appreciate everything you've done to make me feel welcome."

"You _are_ welcome, and it's been nice for us too," Peter glanced at Neal, guessing by the subject change what his plans for the day entailed. "You thinking of checking out of the Burke Hotel?" He asked.

"Well, the week is almost up," Neal reminded him, "and I'm feeling better. I think I've disrupted the Burke household long enough."

"We have a two-year-old," Peter declared, "our household is _always_ disrupted. But I can understand you needing your own space; especially If you plan to work from home. Have you got somewhere in mind?"

"Actually, I do," Neal responded. "I was thinking about asking June if she still has a vacancy." There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "Thought the old place might be kind of nice to see again."

That Neal would want a place of his own for the next several weeks didn't surprise Peter but that he'd consider a return to June's did. He'd said that being in the city made him feel like Neal Caffrey, something that haunted his dreams. Being in his old apartment was bound to intensify that feeling, and yet that was where he wanted to go. Peter wasn't sure what to make of that. Perhaps it was a case of the hair of the dog. If he could learn to sleep in the apartment, any where else in New York should prove no problem.

"I'm sure June would like that," Peter said. "Does she know you're in town?"

"Not yet, but I'll call her later," Neal answered. "If she is willing to lease me the apartment, could you take me over there? Mozzie's tied up until the weekend."

Peter didn't ask, nor did he want to know, what Mozzie was tied up with. The little guy had been extremely busy and had declined two separate dinner invitations from Elizabeth.

"Be glad to," Peter replied. "I'd like to see June myself. It's been awhile." He didn't get into the circumstances of their last meeting. "She owns a Nathan Clay original, doesn't she?"

"Yes she does," Neal smiled.

"I wouldn't mind seeing one of _those,_ either. Not to pry," He was prying; he couldn't help himself, "but a lease seems to indicate more than a five-week stay. Anything you want to tell me?"

"Just that Mozzie and I were talking investment strategy," Neal seemed pleased, "and he likes the idea of a Nathan Clay Gallery here in New York."

"So does Elizabeth," Peter added. So did _he_. "She's only mentioned it a half dozen times since you've been here." Peter paused, daring to hope. "A Nathan Clay Gallery would mean that _Nathan Clay_ would need to be in New York, at least part time, wouldn't it?"

"It would indeed," Neal agreed with a smile. "Elodie runs the Paris gallery, and I could find an American counterpart to manage the one here."

"Is that the Artsy take on the adage _A Girl in every port_?" Peter teased. That was all Elizabeth needed; a local Elodie Angevine. "So what will _you_ do?"

"I'll split my time between the two," Neal rolled his eyes at Peter's raised eyebrows, "the two _galleries,_ Peter, not the two _managers_. I like simple, remember? I'll spend my time where I'm most needed."

By having galleries in both Paris and New York, Neal could realistically choose either city as his primary residence. The next few weeks, Peter guessed, were likely to be a determining factor. If things went well, Neal could decide the New York Gallery needed him most; if they didn't, Peter felt sure that Paris would require the bulk of his time. With a lease agreement in each city, Neal could travel out and back as it suited him. He had to make no concrete decisions.

Having arrived at their destination, Peter pulled into a front row parking place marked _Visitor._ Turning off the car, he looked at Neal.

"That certainly keeps your options open and with your new-found millions, I guess you can afford a place in both cities."

"I can," Neal replied. "And you know I like to keep my options open."

"I do know that. But I'm curious," Peter ventured, "Why stay at June's?"

The hesitation was slight. "Because it's the only place that's ever felt like home," Neal met his eyes and held his gaze steadily, "and I want to know if it can feel like that again."

The words surprised Peter; not by their content as much as the way in which they were spoken. Without shame, embarrassment, or fear of any perceived weakness the admission might indicate. That was what it was all about; whether or not Neal could find again what he regretted leaving behind. His friends, family, his sense of purpose and belonging. It was another of what Peter was beginning to think of as a _Nathan Clay Moment_ ; a moment of such complete, unabashed honesty that it left him stunned.

It took Peter a moment to find words. "I hope it can." If it did, Neal would stay.

After a moment of awkwardness, Neal dropped his gaze. "Time will tell." Neal pulled the sling off his injured arm and tossed it on the seat. "And time tells me it's time for us to get to the meeting."

Peter looked questioningly at the discarded sling as Neal flipped down the visor and checked his appearance in the mirror. "Sure that's a good idea?"

Neal ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it appropriately. Satisfied, he flipped the visor back up. "I'm sure Mr. GQ isn't showing up for any meeting wearing a sling." He grinned at Peter, "Remember, in my business image is everything."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Nathan Clay looked much better than he had the last time Elliot had seen him, in fact, had he not been there when it happened, he would have never guessed the man had been shot the week before. His posture relaxed, his demeanor reserved and confident, there was no indication of injury in either his movement nor expression. Clay appeared the same as he had the first time Elliot had met him; as a young, stylishly clad Gallery Owner from Paris. At that meeting, Elliot hadn't thought he could possibly deliver what he was promising. But he had been mistaken; Clay had delivered all that and more. Thanks to his work, Elliot was in the midst of the biggest case of his life, possibly a career maker. Over the past two weeks, Elliot had learned there was much more to Nathan Clay than his devil-may-care appearance and his sense of style. He was cool under pressure, thought fast on his feet and was loyal beyond compare. Elliot had first misjudged him; now he respected him.

The greetings were brief and the meeting straightforward. The attorney asked a series of questions to verify that the terms and conditions of the agreement had been met by all parties. Once it was established that all had executed their respective roles accordingly, they each signed the closing document, officially concluding the business between Nathan Clay and the Federal Government.

When the meeting ended, Nathan Clay stood and extended his hand. Elliot watched his face for any sign of discomfort as he shook hands with each one of them. There was none. His grip was firm and steady. The agents left the office, Singleton rushed to another briefing, leaving Elliot, Clay and Burke.

"You know," Agent Elliot said to Clay, "if you decide to stick around New York and would be interested in some consulting work, the DEA could use someone like you. Art turns up all the time in the drug business, and we could use your expertise." He studied the man closely. "Any chance you'd consider working with me again?"

The question clearly pleased him; his blue eyes sparkled with joy. "Working for the Federal government?" Clay cast an amused look in Burke's direction. "What an interesting idea."

Elliot knew the history between Clay and Burke and that working for the Federal Government was something, Clay, as Neal Caffrey, was not only familiar with but very good at. Burke had said he was the best he'd ever worked with, and Elliot believed him.

As Neal Caffrey, he'd started out a criminal, his crimes as much about the challenge they presented as the profit margins they provided. It was the excitement of the game more than the score that drove his exploits, and when Agent Burke ended his criminal career, he seemed to derive equal pleasure out of his work with the FBI. He was an adrenaline junkie; he craved excitement and the thrill of a challenge. Working as a CI at White Collar provided Caffrey a way to stay out of prison and do what he loved at the same time. What had Burke said? The more dangerous it is, the better he likes it? He loved it, was good at it and was an excellent asset.

As Nathan Clay, he had left that lifestyle behind until Burke had been kidnapped and taken to Venezuela. Clay had rescued his friend, without backup and on foreign soil, and now, four months later, had come to New York with a plan to bring down the organization behind his kidnapping. Burke's endangerment may have prompted Clay's return to the game, but he clearly enjoyed being back. Elliot wondered if he could return to his former thrill-free life after all the excitement the past few months had provided.

"It could be a case by case thing," Elliot added, recalling Clay's response when El Rey had made a similar offer, "and you'd be compensated for your assistance."

Not that Elliot thought financial reward would be necessary. Clay loved the game, and if given the opportunity, would likely play it again and again. Agent Burke knew this about his friend and knew his value as an asset more than anyone. Neal Caffrey on his team had produced remarkable results, and Nathan Clay could doubtlessly do the same. But by the glances that had passed between them at Elliot's offer, Burke had not yet made one.

It surprised Elliot in a way; he'd think Burke would have jumped on the opportunity. But he had picked up on an underlying tension between the men that likely stemmed from their previous working arrangement. The relationship between a handler and a CI differed greatly from the relationship between co-workers. The men probably had some issues to resolve before they could make that move. But until then, Elliot would love to have Clay play for his team, even if only part time.

"We could use a man like you," He reiterated. Clay did have an ego, after all.

Clay's amused look turned to a more reflective one. "I will think about it, Agent Elliot."

Elliot glanced at Agent Burke, who was looking at his friend with an odd expression. "I'm sure your skills could be useful at White Collar, too," He ventured, "Agent Burke at some point might want to make you a similar offer on their behalf."

Burke and Clay locked gazes. Elliot felt an unmistakable tension in the air. Apprehension? Anticipation? He wasn't sure which it was. Perhaps some mix of both.

"If I did make a similar offer," Burke began almost hesitantly, "Would you actually consider coming back to work at White Collar?"

"Nathan Clay has never _worked_ at White Collar," Clay corrected."That was that _other_ guy."

It was anticipation he was feeling in the air, Elliot decided, unable to keep a smile off his face. Fortunately the two men were so focused on each other, his expression of mirth went unnoticed.

"My mistake, Nathan," Burke replied wryly. "Sometimes I get the two of you confused." His tone grew serious. "So _would_ you?" He asked, "Would you considering coming to work for me at White Collar?"

" _For_ you? I don't know," Clay replied honestly. "But _with_ you?" He paused, "Yeah, I think I'd consider it. Just one thing."

Burke couldn't keep a smile off his face. "Let me guess, no mortgage fraud, filing or paperwork?'' Elliot surmised these had been common complaints of Neal Caffrey.

"Those are a given, as well as no van time," Neal added. "But I want a good coffee station at the office, you know with one of those machines that make a variety of beverages. No more having to run out for a decent cappuccino."

"As long as it comes out of your expense account and not mine," Burke replied, "you can have whatever coffee maker you want."

Whatever issues the two men still needed to work out from their past, Elliot had no doubt that they would be able to do so. In fact, he doubted there was much the two of them couldn't accomplish once the put their minds to it. Burke and Caffrey had been the dynamic duo at White Collar. It seemed likely that Burke and Clay would reprise those roles sooner or later. That was of course, if Nathan Clay decided to stay in New York. By the grins on both men's faces, Elliot felt the chances of that were pretty good.


	27. Chapter 27

_Thank you to all who have followed this story and for all who have left reviews. I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter Twenty Seven**

"Peter Burke," June seemed glad to see him, but he knew the joy in her eyes was not because he was standing at her door, but because the evening before it had been her most favorite houseguest, Neal Caffrey.

"Hey, June," He replied as she stepped aside and he entered. He glanced up toward the second floor. "Is he here?" He hadn't seen the car on the street, but Mozzie could have again absconded with it. It was a sweet ride.

She shook her head. "No, he's not back yet. He said if you got here before he did, to ask you to please take his things on up. He also said that you didn't have to wait for him if you had things to do."

Neal had said he'd be by the house to pick up his things, but Peter had offered to bring them on over himself. He wanted to see June; the last time he'd seen her had been under less than pleasant circumstances. He also wanted a look at a Nathan Clay original.

"Nothing but Saturday chores," Peter answered, following her up the staircase with Neal's bags in his hands, "so I'd just as soon be here. Were you surprised to hear from him?" He would feel sorry about having kept Neal's secret from her except for the fact that she'd kept it from him as well.

"Not to hear from him," she replied, "but I was surprised he was here. I'm afraid I made him uncomfortable with my gushing yesterday, but I couldn't help it. It was just so good to see him."

Peter had driven Neal over the afternoon before but hadn't witnessed the reunion; he had waited in the car. He'd gotten the impression that Neal expected the reunion to be emotional and didn't want an audience. But the entire visit hadn't lasted more than twenty minutes, and Neal had been back at the car.

"Well?" Peter inquired when he volunteered no information.

"Well, what?" Neal's reply was short; he sounded more out of breath than the walk should have merited.

"How did it go?" Peter sensed that, for some reason, it hadn't gone well. "What did she say?" He couldn't imagine June being anything but happy to see Neal, or thrilled that he might be staying with her. But Neal didn't look happy or thrilled in the least; in fact, he looked a bit pale.

"She said I can lease the place for five weeks, five months or five years as far as she's concerned."

Sure now that something was wrong, Peter took his hand off the ignition and waited, eyes intent on Neal's profile since he refused to look at him. Neal was making an effort to control his breathing, inhaling purposefully through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. Peter had used the same calming technique himself.

Panic attacks were debilitating. They left the most confident person shaken to the core. Peter waited, and after a moment, Neal glanced at him. His expression confirmed Peter's concerns; there was distress in the blue eyes.

"You okay?" It was a stupid question. Neal's hands were tightly clasped in his lap, had they not been, Peter was sure they'd have been shaking.

"I will be." He looked away quickly. "It was just strange stepping back in there."

Strange to the point of panic, Peter thought. When Neal had left the apartment that last time he'd never expected to see it again. Just being back in the city caused him nightmares and seeing the apartment had clearly shaken him.

"I guess so," Peter said, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.

Neal didn't say anything else, and after a few moments of silence, Peter tried to initiate conversation. Whether Neal knew it or not, talking about how he felt would help and five weeks was a long time. He wasn't a therapist, but he had ears.

"So," Peter ventured. "What did you tell her? Five weeks, five months or five years? Or," he paused, "are you going apartment hunting this weekend?" Neal didn't immediately respond, and Peter continued. "There are lots of places in New York to rent; you don't have to stay there."

"Yes I do," Neal retorted, "that's the whole point, Peter. If I'm going to spend time in New York, I have to be able to walk where Neal Caffrey walked without feeling a tracking device on my ankle." He sounded both determined and frustrated.

"Walking where he walked is one thing," Peter said, "but living where he lived is another." And working where he worked? How hard would it be for him to walk into the White Collar offices? "New York is a big city, much larger than a two-mile radius. You can start fresh," He suggested, "and change everything. June would understand; I would understand."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "You withdrawing your offer to work at White Collar?"

"No," Peter said, "not withdrawing it, just making sure you know that I'd understand if you'd rather work with Agent Elliot. They call you Boy Wonder over there, you know," he added, trying to lighten the mood.

"Really, Boy Wonder?" It worked; Neal sounded better.

"Yes, and Mr. GQ. You've made quite an impression on the DEA crowd."

"There are some serious style contradictions there, but I appreciate the sentiment." Neal paused, "But if I do decide to work with the Feds again I'd just as soon it be with ones I already know."

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't?"

"Something like that," he chuckled, "And I told June I'd be back tomorrow. If I'm going to live in New York, for five weeks or five years, this is where I'm going to be."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

June opened the door to the apartment, and Peter stepped inside. This time was so much better than the last time Peter had been here; two years ago he'd been here to pick up some things that had belonged to Neal Caffrey. This time, he was bringing in things that belonged to Nathan Clay.

He sat the bags down on the small dining room table and stepped into the open area that was the living room.

Just as Neal had said, very little had changed. But one thing had: a rather large painting hanging above the fireplace. Peter was sure it had not been there before. June followed his gaze.

"That's how he let me know," June volunteered, nodding towards the framed piece. Although the painting itself was not familiar the scene, it depicted stirred Peter's memory. "A year after Neal's death, a package arrived from the Nathan Clay Gallery in Paris. It was that painting.'

Now even more interested, Peter instinctively stepped closer. This, he assumed, was a Nathan Clay original.

Peter now knew why the scene was familiar. He recognized it as the view from the terrace looking west down the street toward the park. It had been some time since he'd enjoyed that view. Even when Neal had called this home, Peter hadn't spent much time here. It was just one more thing that Peter had regretted; another missed opportunity to have strengthened the friendship instead of weakening it. Another error he hoped to have the chance to rectify.

"I recognized the subject matter immediately, of course," June continued, "and when I read the enclosed letter, I knew it was from Neal; I knew he was alive."

"What did the letter say?"

"That this was an original piece by Nathan Clay; the first painting he'd ever done from his heart and that he wanted me to have it in appreciation for being such a good friend to him." She paused. "And that he was sorry for hurting me."

Peter had always known Neal was a talented artist. He'd seen his impressive copies of Monet, Matisse, and Degas, sometimes done for fun-it's not a forgery if you don't intend to pass it off as an original, Neal had told him- and sometimes as a prop for a job. He suspected there were scores of pieces in museums and private collections worldwide that were forgeries, the alleged work of Neal Caffrey.

Just a few nights earlier, sitting on the bed in the Burke guestroom, Neal had said that he'd been whoever he was needed or expected to be; and one of those things had been a master forger. But as Nathan Clay, he had chosen a different way to use his talents, and this piece was an example of that. Peter had never seen a Caffrey, but he supposed this wasn't a Caffrey; it was a Clay. Done from his heart and it was breathtaking.

"This is really good." Peter could see the individual petals on each bloom on the cherry trees that lined the street; the slight variations in the bark of the trees. There was a lady walking her dog, a small terrier, and wisps of dark hair were wind blown across her face. The painted depicted a breezy, spring day and the detail was unbelievable. Peter wondered how long it had taken Neal to complete it, and what he'd been thinking as he did so.

"Yes, it is. When I got this painting, I knew he was alive," she restated, "but when I saw the title of it, I hung it here because I knew one day when he was ready, he'd be back."

"The title?"

"Le Vue de la Maison," she answered. At his look, she translated. " _The View from Home._ This is home to him, Peter, and once he was able to admit that, I knew it was a matter of time until he came back to us."

"So," Peter turned to look at June, "do you think he _is_ back, I mean, to _stay_?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "He said he'd lease the space for six months, but would only commit to actually staying here until he's cleared to travel." She frowned, "What happened to him anyway? All he'd say was he was doing some undercover worked and failed to duck and cover."

"He didn't try to duck and cover," Peter said. "He took a bullet saving someone's life."

"That doesn't surprise me," She said, shaking her head. "That's the kind of man he is, the kind he's _always_ been."

"I know," Peter acknowledged, "but he _has_ changed, June, more than just his name. He's-" He paused, trying to put into words what was so different about his friend. "more self-aware, I guess. He knows who he is, who he _wants_ to be, and he's acted on it. He's made a new life for himself."

"As Nathan Clay in Paris," June said, "but he wants to come home, Peter."

"I know he does," Peter agreed, "but he has to figure out how to do that. It can't be like it was before," Peter echoed Neal's words. "It has to be different because _he's_ different."

"He asked if he could change the apartment," June recalled, "Redecorate, so it wasn't like it was before. He tried to hide it, but he was upset when he left here, Peter, I half expected him to call and have changed his mind."

Peter didn't mention that he'd tried to get Neal to do just that; to consider finding somewhere else to stay.

"This is where he wants to be," Peter assured her. "Whatever he has to figure out, he wants to do it from here."

"That's basically what he said today," she said. "He belongs here, Peter, and that painting tells me he knows that."

June excused herself and left Peter alone in the apartment. He stepped closer to the painting, looking at the bottom right corner; the place artists generally signed their names. This was a painting that could be signed with pride, but there was nothing there. With a frown, he looked closer and after a few moments, he saw them: the small letters NC. Had he not sought them out, they would have gone without notice, nearly obscure within the patterns of the cracked paint of a neighboring door stoop.

Peter had seen Nathan Clay's handwriting several times over the past months and had been amazed that it bore no resemblance to that of Neal Caffrey. However, these two letters were the same as they had always been; exactly the way Peter had seen them before.

Hidden either by habit, or as a nod to who he was, or had been. Neal Caffrey. Nathan Clay. It was ambiguous.

"N.C." he said softly.

"Of course," Neal had quietly entered the apartment and was standing beside him. "You know I always sign my work."

"A Nathan Clay Original," Peter remarked, keeping his eyes on the painting. "I'm impressed."

Peter expected Neal to jump at the chance to expound on his talent, to launch into some explanation of technique or medium, but he didn't. After a moment of no response, Peter glanced at Neal. The blue eyes were studying him and not the painting.

"What?" Peter asked at his look.

"Did you really not check the crime database when you found out I was alive?"

Somewhat surprised by the sudden change of topic, Peter hesitated.

"I really didn't," He answered. He hoped Neal wasn't about to make a confession he didn't want to hear.

"Why not?" Neal asked. "Were you afraid of what you'd find?"

"No," Peter replied, meeting his gaze steadily, "I didn't look because it didn't matter. I didn't care what you were doing with your life; I was just glad you _had_ one. And I hoped you were happy."

"Even if happy meant I was conning and thieving my way across Europe?"

"Were you?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

"No," Neal replied, "but I could have been for all you knew. You know I have certain-" he smiled mischievously, "- _inclinations_." He turned his attention again to the painting. "I love the thrill of the steal, and you've no idea how many Degas and Van Goghs I've had access to during the past two years."

"And you didn't venture back to the dark side?"

"Nope, not even once." Peter sensed pride in the quick shake of Neal's head, but he paused before adding, "But I'll admit I was tempted a few times."

"Being tempted isn't a crime," Peter replied, "and it's what you choose to do with those inclinations of yours that matter." He looked at Neal. "I'd imagine that is why you'd be willing to come back and do some work for White Collar, or for Agent Elliot over at the DEA, for that matter. Gives you a way to enjoy the thrill of the steal without-"

"Those pesky consequences of illegal activity," Neal finished with a grin. "But I still can't believe you didn't check."

"Well, no matter what the database said, I'd never have chased you again." Peter shrugged. "So there was no reason to look."

"I guess I'm _not_ the only one who's changed," Neal observed, "because that's what you do; you chase criminals."

"I do chase criminals," Peter stated, "but I don't chase _friends_. When I thought you were dead, I had a lot of regrets, and-."

"Look, Peter-" Neal interrupted, but Peter continued without pause.

"-when I found out you weren't, I made a promise to myself that if I ever saw you again, it would be because _you_ came looking for _me_ and not the other way around."

Neal was quiet a moment before he spoke. "And I did; I went looking for you in Venezuela."

"You did," Peter said, "And you found me, made sure I was rescued and sent back to my family. You saved my life."

"Well," Neal shifted awkwardly beside him, "Friends go where they're needed."

"I know they do," Peter agreed, "And I hope they find a way to _stay_ where they're needed, too." Peter turned back to the art above the mantle. "I really do like this painting."

"Did you recognize the scene?" Glad the former topic had been abandoned, Neal now seemed willing to discuss his art. "It's the view from out those windows there; I painted it from memory."

"I did," Peter answered, "and June told me how she came to own it; and why she hung it here."

"She said she knew I'd be back," Neal's voice held wonder. "Even before I knew it myself, somehow she _knew_."

"She knew because you _told_ her," Peter said gently, "when you named this painting and sent it to her."

" _Le Vue de la Maison_ ," He said almost under his breath. "It looks like it belongs there, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Peter kept his eyes on the breezy, spring scene. "Welcome _home,_ Neal."

"That's what it is, too, Peter. It's _home_."

"Then both you and this painting are where you belong,"

 _La Fin_


End file.
